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VILLA MIRAFIORE 



Villa Mirafiore 



By 

Frederic Crowninshield 

Author of '" Pictoru Carmina" "A Painters Moods,' 
" Tales in Metre" " Under the Laurel" 




Boston and New York 

Houghton Mifflin Company 
1912 










COPYRIGHT, IQI2, BY FREDERIC CROWNINSHIELD 
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 



Published October iqi2 



SCU327488 



Fair Villa Mirafiore, thy dear name 

I give to this my heart-engendered verse: 

Albeit other sites may intersperse 

Their inspirations, none save thee can claim 

So many promptings that my soul inflame, 
Or mine awakened energies so nurse, 
Or a reluctant, dreamy pen coerce 
To write the lines which merit praise or blame. 

laureled Villa! shaded by the pine 

And ilex dense, and where the cypress bends 
To odorous airs, I shall remember thee 

Till 'neath the west my life-light doth decline — 
Thee and thy loveliness, with those sweet 

friends 
Who oft in genial mood came unto me. 



CONTENTS 

IN AMERICA 

Confession 3 

Arrived! 3 

Night and Morn 4 

Fair Dreams 4 

Garibaldi in Rome 5 

Life's Value 6 

In Gloom 6 

Unworthy 7 

Roman Reveries 7 

As She Passes . 8 

Forbear! 9 

By thy Help 9 

Advertisement (after the Boxer Rebellion) 12 

Princess Belgiojoso (on reading her Life) 13 

Lilies 13 

Portents 14 

In Late Winter 15 

As Rome? 15 

Riverside, New York 16 

Disillusioned 16 

Preference 17 

Our Embassies 17 

Soft Winds 19 

Harvesting 20 

To a Young Actress 20 

Light and Life 21 

Acquiescence 22 

Doomed 22 

Beware! 23 

Morn and Eve 24 

Gaming 24 

Dust to Dust 25 

Not Sweet 26 



viii CONTENTS 

Aurora Borealis 26 

The Night Court 27 

Larches .27 

A Contest 28 

The Last Page 29 

Written at Election Time 30 

Forearmed 30 

Consolation 31 

Questionings 32 

Fame Assured 34 

The Guerdon 34 

The Motive 35 

Self-Censure 36 

After a Spectacle '. 36 

The Night of Waterloo (at Quatre-Bras) 37 

To the New Year 38 

Academies 38 

The Knell 39 

After a Certain Exhibition 40 

Certain Plays 41 

The Morning After '42 

Sunshine and Sadness 42 

In Dreamland 43 

Elders 44 

Mid- June 46 

The Greater Pain 46 

Old Wine 47 

Love for Life 47 

Unheard 48 

Farewell and Hail! 49 

EN ITALY 

At Sea 53 

Voyaging 53 

The Island of Flores (Azores) 54 

Off Trafalgar 55 

A Memorable Day 55 

New Rome 56 

The Forum 56 

On the Via Nomentana 57 

In the Villa Borghese 58 



CONTENTS . ix 

Street Scene 58 

Song-Bird 59 

Roman Daisies 59 

In the Villa Mirafiore 60 

Rome to Civita Castellana 60 

At Bracciano 61 

Commemorations 61 

Bugle-Calls (Villa Mirafiore) 62 

From Rome to Caprarola, Viterbo, Toscanella . . . . 62 

A Penance 66 

Laetitia (Madame Mere) 67 

Avowals 68 

At Rimini (Duomo Tempio Malatestiano?) 68 

Temperance 69 

Portugal (October 7, 1910) 69 

Sleep On! 70 

Grim Winter 72 

De Patria 72 

Song — In December 74 

O Dawn 74 

We Artists 75 

The Statue and the Butterfly 76 

South-Wind 77 

The Destroyer 78 

"Sailors of Old Salem" 79 

The Larger Art 80 

The Scar 81 

To a Songstress 81 

The " Cinquantenario " 82 

Palermo 8$ 

Monreale 84 

Segesta 85 

Girgenti 85 

Syracuse 86 

Taormina 87 

Farewell to Sicily 87 

From Agropoli to Paestum 88 

Inthe"Bosco" 89 

Oppressive Beauty 89 

At Vallombrosa 90 

Piazza del Duomo, Orvieto 90 



x CONTENTS 

Piazza del Duomo, Pienza 91 

Piazza del Duomo, Siena 92 

Return to Siena 92 

Tripoli (September 29, 19 11) 96 

Ninfa 96 

Farewell to Rome 97 

After Storm 99 

Almond-Blossoms (Taormina) 100 

On the Corso, Taormina 101 

Halcyon Days, Taormina 102 

Degradation 103 

Idyll — Taormina 104 

From the Theatre, Taormina 105 

Night — Taormina 106 

IN GREECE 

Nearing Greece 109 

At Delphi 109 



IN AMERICA 



IN AMERICA 

CONFESSION 

'T is not enough that comely Art should be 
My only Muse, that she alone should claim 
My sole intent, nor be the zenith-aim 
Of my full-fledged aspiring energy: 

For though this many a year her devotee, 

And though I feel the warmth of her bright flame 
Now as of yore, and love her aye the same, 
Yet would I be no bondsman — nay, but free ! 

For perils to the faltering conscience call, 
And anxious Country vehemently cries 
To bate the golden lusts that men enthrall, 

To stem the villainy that law defies, 

To blast the knaves who on disaster wait 
Like carrion vultures on impending fate. 

September, 1907. 

ARRIVED! 

Behold our goodly work! Now let us rest: 
For we have crystallized the mobile sea, 
And surfeited the desert's thirst. And we 
Have scaffolded the cloud-consorting crest 

Towering above the perished eagle's nest: 

And what were wilding reaches, vast and free — 
The poet's joy and art's felicity — 
Our cunning science-mastery attest. 



4 IN AMERICA 

Our fathers sang of the remorseless wave, 

And mountains virgin of our shodden feet, 
Of forests dusk, of the unbridled stream, 

Of soothing night the weary used to crave. 

But these were merely works of God, unmeet 
For our progressive, larger, wiser scheme. 

September, 1907. 



NIGHT AND MORN 

Last night I saw the sinking moon 

Alike a life that's run: 
This morn I felt the flaming beams; 
I thought my life begun. 
September, 1907. 



FAIR DREAMS 

How soft my soul ye woo, 
Fair Dreams, when laboring, dreary day 
Resigns to night his lingering ray! 

If ye were only true! 

So softly ye endue 
My sering years with youth divine, 
My eve with transports matutine! 

Dear Dreams, if ye were true ! 

Fond Dreams, if ye were true, 
The daintiest maids that sauntering go, 



IN AMERICA 

A-smiling on all weal or woe, 
I should with love imbue ! 

But ye are like the dew 
That takes its glamorous, skyward flight 
Before the all-revealing light: 

Oh, Dreams, ye are not true! 

Then must I bid adieu 
To visions lovelier far than truth, 
And commerce with sad facts uncouth? 

Farewell! ye are not true. 
October, 1907. 



GARIBALDI IN ROME 

Decades have passed; yet I remember well 

The Romans' wild, tumultuous cheer on cheer 
Hailing the chief to every freeman dear, 
Who years before had anguished to repel 

The foreigner, who heard sweet Freedom's knell, 
And left her lying on a bloody bier 
To be endungeoned in a fortress drear 
Till legioned Italy should ope her cell. 

And Italy did ope it; but how hard 

For him, who recognized nor king nor caste — 
Who loved a pauper as he loved a czar — 

Who was in Liberty's defense all scarred — 
To sacrifice his proudest, holiest past 
That Rome might shine his Country's guiding 
star! 

November, 1907. 



IN AMERICA 



LIFE'S VALUE 



One messmate less! gone on his sudden way: 
And we were moved but little: some one said, 
"Poor devil, what a godsend he is dead! 
For he was world- worn, broken in the fray — 

Soul, body, brain in comfortless decay: 
Not maimed enough to lie upon a bed 
Of torture, braving pains unmerited, 
Yet doomed to falter through each irksome day." 

Life seemed so sacred in unknowing years — 
Precious beyond disaster or disgrace! 
Dismemberment or anguish had no fears 

Confronted with the ghastly, coffined face. 

But now Death's twilight pallor touches me 
As doth the soothing, slumbrous, evening sea. 

December, 1907. 



IN GLOOM 

Stand back, Despair ! Thou shalt not always hide 
The sunlight of my days, nor shalt thou shade 
Bright aptitudes for joy. I was not made 
To blanch in utter gloom, nor aye abide 

With thee. Look out upon the heavens wide 
And on the gorgeous world all overlaid 
With beaming tincts ! Dost see yon cavalcade 
Of darkling clouds that o'er the azure glide — 

That cast dead shades upon the living earth? 

See, too, how quick they take their sombre flight 
And tensify the sunshine's second birth, 



IN AMERICA 

Making the lovely land more hued, more bright ! 
Then wing thy sullen way, O fell Despair, 
And let me bask in sunnier, saner air! 

December, 1907. 



UNWORTHY 

We think the glorious cause of Freedom won 
Because we flaunt her form of government, 
And deem our favored selves divinely sent 
To key the world to kingless unison. 

Delusion ! Oh, not yet have we begun 
To understand true Liberty's intent, 
To comprehend her ways benevolent, 
To ken the perils she would have us shun. 

Shame is it that we reverence brute gold — 
Ennoble it in this our casteless state! 
Shame is it that we blandly tolerate 

Fierce Lynch's methods — not calm Law uphold! 
And yet more shame that our mean white-man's 

pride 
Forbids to scatter freedom far and wide! 

January, 1908. 



ROMAN REVERIES 

Thank God that I was there in those last years 
Of papal Rome. Their colored memories fill 
My soul with bliss, and every fibre thrill, 
As with pressed lids their pageantry appears. 



8 IN AMERICA 

Now sacred Music breaks upon my ears 

At dawn-time when the wintry air is still, 
And now I see upon the Pincian Hill 
Prince-cardinals in red that domineers 

Even the poppy's flame. And artists gay 

With garb and manners of a rich Romance, 
Pilgrims from England, Germany, and France — 

From every realm — but stay, my pen, oh, stay! 
For when the cannon woke Rome from her 

trance, 
In Freedom's name I blessed that glorious day. 

January, 1908. 



AS SHE PASSES 

Not that fair damsel would I take to wife, 
Though fresh as opalescent dawn she be, 
With eyes like bluets on the emerald lea, 
And fragrant as the blooming springtide life 

With which the quickening hills and dales are rife — 
E'en would she deign to smile consent on me. 
No, not that Helen- wonder, nay, not she! 
For with the glory I behold the strife, 

And yond the beauty I descry the lure, 

And underneath the fateful, studied scheme 
Of glamouring garb, revealing forms Greek-pure, 

I see too clear a vanity supreme, 

And love of mundane gauds insatiate. 
Nay, not for Ormus should she be my mate! 

January, 1908. 



IN AMERICA 



FORBEAR ! 



A brilliant wintry sun illumes the street, 
And in the shine extravagantly dressed 
Sport children of the rich with radiant jest; 
While toward them sorely fares on faltering feet 

Beneath her faggot-load a maiden sweet — 

Neither with raiment warm nor leisure blest — 
And lays her burden down to take short rest 
Upon the stony curb — a grateful seat. 

A moment's breath, and then upon her head, 
So nobly crowned with coils of glorious hair, 
She balances again her crushing weight 

And staggers on. Alas ! if wiles were spread 

Before those lovely eyes. O friends, forbear, 
If she should choose a less inclement fate! 

January, 1908. 



BY THY HELP 

Sweet guardian Muse who hast our souls in care, 

Kind consort of the laureled, ardent few 

Who strive to deck thy shrine with garlands 

new — 
Oft high in hope, yet oftener in despair 

Deep drowned — dost thou not view 

In somewhat of dismay 
A puissant people on its groveling way 
To clarioned wealth, the Goddess of the day? 

Whose garish handmaids are, 
Not virtues shining as a modest star, 



io IN AMERICA 

But vices vulgar as an artificial light 
Compared to sky-born beacons of the holy night. 
Surely thy presence pure 
With its investiture 
Of elevating thought and sanctified design 
(For that which raiseth is not undivine) 
Should chaster, loftier life assure, 
Should our coin-callous hands refine, 
And chivalry with lawful gain combine. 

I gaze upon a lovely scene, 
It may be on a summer eve serene, 
When cornfields softly clatter in the breeze ; 
And what an hour since was lushest green 
Is now all gilded by day's abdicating lord — 
A sight to please 
Censorious eyes, and harbinger heart's-ease, 
Because of its accord. 

I look upon a nobly moulded face 

Soul-eloquent, of ivory hue 
Beneath jet hair that snares sharp glints of 

blue — 
A face that diadems a form all grace, 
Worthy to take a proud immortal place 

Among the flawless few, 
The goddesses of pure Olympian race, 
Who as the ages wane their blooming youth renew. 

Yet if a shrilling color-note should mar 

That comely landscape's sweet concording 

scheme 
All mellowed by the sinking sun's last beam, 
Awhile the evening star 



IN AMERICA ii 

Upon its roseate couch doth palely gleam; 

Or if some influence indign 
Should disconcert that faultless form divine — 
Distort the tuneful play of line, 

Should I not grieve 
At loss of beauties that inweave 

Their silken strands with mine, 
And curse the powers that thus bereave 
My eyes of Heaven's design? 

So when I note the ugly deed 
Of soulless men who in their purblind speed 
Would pyramid pure gold, 
Or hear their coarse untutored speech 
Discording with the strains the sages teach, 
Whose aims all lie within a pagan's reach, 
I chant into the world my poet's creed 
That would fair things uphold. 

O Beauty of the perfect thing! 
Be it of hue, or line, or speech, or deed, 
O gracious Muse, wilt thou not kindly lead 
A potent nation to thy pure Castalian spring? 

That it may quaff those magic draughts which 
bring 

An aye-abiding sense 
Of what is true, refined, and high — 
Of those amenities that never die — 
And towering eminence 
In full benevolence 
To all mankind through all this rloreate earth. 
We lack not will nor strength; nor is there 
dearth 
Of ample, sating wealth: 



12 IN AMERICA 

But give, sweet guardian Muse, that which is 
worth 
All else — that hath been thine since thy Pierian 
birth — 

Harmonious health. 
January, 1908. 



ADVERTISEMENT 

(After the Boxer Rebellion) 

Come, buy! At unrestricted public sale 

Antique and modern porcelains will be sold, 
Carved ivories, brocades of silk and gold, 
Soft bells that tinkled down some Orient dale, 

And battle-flags that crimsoned on the gale, 

Lacquers and brazen Buddhas — new and old — 
Rich royal dragoned vestments manifold, 
And jades with inlaid things of quaint detail. 

Come, buy, come, buy! collectors of the West, 
These peerless treasures of the helpless East — 
A chance unique to share the splendid loot. 

Come, bid and buy! and do not shudder, lest 
Ye dream of blood on it; the blood has ceased, 
The inconvenient death-shriek long been mute. 

February, 1908. 



IN AMERICA 13 



PRINCESS BELGIOJOSO 

(On reading her life) 

Lady of the lovely name, farewell ! 

O Princess strong and strange and large of 

heart — 
And stately in the classic vein of art — 
No despot could thy naming spirit quell! 

Where'er an exile thou wert forced to dwell — 
On Frankish soil or by some Asian mart — ■ 
There nobly didst thou play the patriot part, 
In alien lands thy country's sentinel. 

But yet throughout thy long dramatic life, 

One scene there is that domineers the rest: 
When Freedom was entangled in the net 

Of Tyranny, when Rome was red with strife, 

Thou wert the angel nurse, and with thee, blest 
By all, was our New England Margaret. 1 

February, 1908. 



LILIES 

Behold the pompous lilies, creamy white, 

And gold, and orange-flecked, and palish green, 
Crowning their speary sheaves in state serene, 
Gleaming like cloudlets in an opal light, 

1 Margaret Fuller. 



i 4 IN AMERICA 

Or as those solemn angels benedight, 
Shining on azure apses Byzantine, 
Or those rare women of majestic mien 
Who have at blessed moments blest my sight ! 

And oh, the fragrance! wilderingly sweet, 

A sweetness overwhelming — nearing pain — 
That bodeth evil while it doth beguile. 

Transcendent lilies ! with all joys replete, 

Beneath your loveliness there lurks a bane, 
As venom ambushed by a luring smile. 

February, 1908. 



PORTENTS 

Alas ! O Heart, those were ominous days, 
When the reek of the flaming forests hung low, 
And over the land sagged a pungent haze, 
Mantling the Autumn's sumptuous glow, 

When the might from the sun had fled, 
And his face was naught but an impotent ring - 
A passionless, cold, unprocreant thing 
That harmlessly droned in a dim gray sky, 
A dangerless disk to the insolent eye. 

Ah, what, O Heart, did they bring — 
The reek and the blaze and the impotent sun, 

That cold, painted globe of red? 
They brought thee pain for a joy undone, 
A tragedy wrought from a bliss begun, 
And the land was veiled for a life that was run, 

While the Orb in the heavens bled. 
February, 1908. 



IN AMERICA 15 



IN LATE WINTER 

O long white clouds that streak the southern sky, 
And canopy the city's roof-tree gray, 
Have ye, O dazzling ones, for me no ray 
That this grim city thus do glorify? 

Yon house-tops ye illume till they outvie 

Italian domes, and Frankish spires, and gay, 
Tiled mosques, and storied temples of Cathay: 
Then do not to my night your beams deny. 

Come, white Ones, come! and lift my lowly soul 
' All prostrate with the pains of winter drear. 
The lengthening, quickening days move on 
apace, 

And verduring, breezy billows hither roll : 

Come! lift me, then, for Spring is almost here, 
And I would greet her with a cheerful grace. 

March, 1908. 



AS ROME? 

Whene'er I brood upon our vaulting pride, 
Our love of wealth and vulgar luxury, 
With anxious voice I ask, "Oh! can it be 
That we unwary freemen — we shall glide 

Like Rome of old adown the glossy tide 
Into a turbulent, anarchic sea 
Engulfing every sacred liberty, 
Awhile a few severely, vainly chide?" 

Or does our gilded restlessness forestall 

A whiter life, and manners more austere, 
With simpler, saintlier ways? Fierce Boreas 
blows, 



16 IN AMERICA 

And all the glamoured gauds of Autumn fall: 

But sweeter Auster wafts the new, green year. 
Will time renew our hearts? God only knows. 

April, 1908. 



RIVERSIDE, NEW YORK 

It seems incredible when springtide calm 

Is swooning on yon cliff and pale gray stream — 
Upon whose lap white war-ships gayly gleam — 
When buds bring hope, and fragrant airs waft 
balm, 

When all the world is one melodious psalm, 

That storm should e'er disturb this peace 

supreme, 
That truth should ever mar this perfect dream, 
That pain should ever claim the martyr's palm. 

fond Delusion, yet a moment bide! 

And thou, O Memory, close thy ponderous gate! 
And thou, too, Future, thy decretals hide, 

Screening with golden web remorseless fate ! 
For I would linger on the unruffled tide 
As those white war-ships in their gala state. 

April, 1908. 



DISILLUSIONED 

Unhappy was that day when first I learned 
To see the sad, unveiled, unwelcome truth, 
And all the glamour of ingenuous youth 
Fade into ash. On that dark day were burned 



IN AMERICA 17 

My full-rigged argosies; that day were urned 

My sweet ideals — stark dead; that day for- 
sooth 
The fondest, loveliest things became uncouth, 
And all my gods to mannikins were turned. 

Once statesmen were to me the embodiment 

Of wisdom high, and their fair speech seemed 

frank, 
And noble were the warriors girt to slay, 

And once to me was Law equivalent 

To Right. Yet now I see the mountebank 
Where once I saw — but more I must not say. 

May, 1908. 



PREFERENCE 

Not, not for me white wolds and winter-woe, 
But Maytime mild, and fall of blossom-snow. 
May, 1908. 



OUR EMBASSIES 

The years sweep on apace, and yet we do not grow 
In virtue, for our blazoned wealth is all we have to 
show: 

And uncontent at home to spread our glittering 
hoard, 
We now would ship it overseas to publish it abroad. 



1 8 IN AMERICA 

Alack! there was a time when at our Nation's 
birth 
We stood for rugged Liberty, and heartened all on 
earth 

Who yearned for equal rights, who scorned the 
gauds of kings, 
Who loathed their mean bedizened courts and 
shameless lackeyings. 

But legates now we crave to ape the tawdry way 
Of tinseled folk who deem it strength to flaunt their 
rich array, 

Forgetful of the past when resolution gained 
For envoys the respect of all, and character sustained 

Our puissant Nation's rank, the peer of any throne, 
Because the homely life meant power; because that 
we alone 

Were hailed in every land the type of what should 
be 
When caste is broken on the wheel, when no man 
bends the knee; 

Because we stood for health, and forwarded the 
trend 
Toward universal peace and love, toward gifts the 
gods protend. 

Alas ! what would we now? to lower our lofty flight? 
To wing on less ideal plane? What profit, then, the 
fight 



IN AMERICA 19 

If we descend to earth from our rough eagle-crest, 
And with the pampered, flightless fowl brood in a 
gilded nest? 

Nay! Chasten, chasten life, all fripperies give o'er, 
And let the peacocks strut below, awhile we skyward 

soar! 
May, 1908. 



SOFT WINDS 

Soft-sighing, soughing winds, 

Ye waft from off warm seas 
The mildest, pearliest mists 
That veil the virid leas, the brake, and bourgeoning 
trees. 

Soft-sighing, soughing winds, 

How tunefully ye play 
With fresh-born, golden greens, 
Through budding branch and spray — that answer 
to your lay! 

O sighing, soughing winds, 

What sweet content ye bring 
To heart-chords winter-worn ! 
What soothing songs ye sing — low lullabies of 

Spring! 
May, 1908. 



2o IN AMERICA 



HARVESTING 



The keen steel blades of the mower whirr, 

While the west winds blow, 
And over the tawny reaches err: 

Wherever they go 

The grasses bend low 
And to their frolicsome swirls defer. 

Meek grasses tall 

So soon to fall! 
Oh, what a day for the harvester! 
June, 1908. 



TO A YOUNG ACTRESS 

O golden-haired one, thou of triumphs hereafter, 

List to my warning! 
O Goddess of Spring and of joy, Goddess of laughter, 

Yet in thy morning! 
Blue-eyed as the zenith, lithe as the bank-clinging 
willow, 

Remember, remember, 
When thou hearest the shouts of applause, surging 
billow on billow, 

Thy certain December! 
July, 1908. 



IN AMERICA 21 



LIGHT AND LIFE 

What heavenly peace there is this splendent morn ! 
Dark larches pinnacle the violet-blue 
Of unrlecked skies: the white-branched birches 
strew 
On sun-sprent lawns cool shades : the bladed corn 
Glints sharp beneath the waxing rays adorn 

With shimmering dew. 

How full of living light this brilliant day! 

Yon distant hills are laved in dreamy mist; 

Their slopes take on the hue of amethyst; 
The fragrant fields are stacked with golden hay, 
While joyous birds scale out their roundelay, 

And make sweet tryst. 

Look now aloft! A wonder-cloud pure white 
Lifts languidly upon the larch-pierced sky, 
And heaven's deep violet-blue doth glorify, 
Making the golden meads supremely bright 
With its contrasting shade — a radiant sight, 
Yet doomed to die: 

For evening comes, when bird and sun will nest, 
And larch and birch and corn will slowly blend 
In one dim-margined mass, and dark descend 
Upon the aureate fields; while in the west 
The hills on glooming skies will faintly rest, 
And all will end. 



22 IN AMERICA 

Look now abroad again ! once more on high 
The blinding cloud, once more below I see 
The erring shade upon the glowing lea. 

Oh, why not always living morn? I cry, 

Oh, why not always deathless light? I sigh . . 
It cannot be. 

July, 1908. 



ACQUIESCENCE 

To sever self from fateful circumstance, 

To lead the longed-for, perfect life apart, 
To make of every act a thing of art, 
Were but the fabric of a dear romance. 

We are mere puppets to a heedless chance, 
The victims to another's tender heart, 
The bondmen to a homestead or the mart, 
Despite our constant, utmost vigilance. 

I hear without the moaning of the gale, 

Dark clouds rush o'er the uncongenial sky, 
The grasses cringe beneath the storm-king's flail. 

How can a leaflet his fierce thews defy 

When all the supple branches bend and quail? 
Who can resist fell fate? Can you, or I? 

July, 1908. 



DOOMED 

The solemn shadow of Death's sable wing 

Is slowly stealing o'er my neighbor's home, 
Like lengthening shades that ominously roam 
Over the evening fields, dark scouts that bring 



IN AMERICA 23 

An utter, toneless night to everything, 

Tingeing the minster spire, the stately dome, 
The humbler hut to one swart monochrome. 
But why, O Death, dost thou my life-chords 
wring? 

Is it because I love my neighbor so 

That loss of him would draw the mourning tear 
From sources sweet with love of long ago? 

But think, O craven Heart, thou art his peer 

In livelong years ! Oh, can it be? — no, no ! — 
That thou dost grieve because thy death is near? 

July, 1908. 



BEWARE! 

What have the plumaged rich to offer us, 

Retainers of the pen, the brush, the lyre? 
Can they fulfill the flaming heart's desire? 
Can they be aught than mortal incubus? 

Too poor the richer topics to discuss, 

They only prate of what is low or higher 
Within the market-place, or else attire 
Their vapid talk with gewgaws scandalous. 

What can they offer but a sumptuous board? 

We'll none of that — the plainer fare is best: 
What can they give? a dole from their vast 
hoard? 

We'll none of that; for peril is there, lest 

We should be truckling to some overlord. 
Oh! let us leave them to their sleek unrest. 

July, 1908. 



24 IN AMERICA 



MORN AND EVE 

When o'er the hill-top lifts the shining morn, 
When hope and thought and strength are newly born, 
When of all yester-ill the soul is shorn, 

Ah! then, 't is sweet to stay. 

But in the solemn shade of mournful eve, 
When glamouring splendor doth no more deceive, 
And hopes and airy fancies take their leave, 
Who would not wing away? 
July, 1908. 



GAMING 

So fair Thy world ! And yet these gamesters pass 
The shining hours of high enameled noon, 
Or lower lustre of the gentler moon, 
Within four lifeless, viewless walls. Alas ! 

They neither gaze on summer's tasseled grass, 

Nor those white flocks that on blue fields are 

strewn, 
Nor moonlit mists that on dark heavens swoon : 
Nay! all Thy gold is but as sounding brass. 

'T is not the vulgar, coarser crew I mean, 

Who haunt the dayless, stifling, garish hell 
Where Babylon her world-old traffic plies: 

But those of gentler breeding who, I ween, 

Example's force should comprehend too well 
Their coin to stake before pure children's eyes. 

August, iqo8. 



IN AMERICA 25 



DUST TO DUST 



In Norseland there was lately oped a mound — 
Not far from where cold Ocean curls his wave — 
And lo ! it proved an ancient sea-queen's grave. 
Therein companioned with the corse were found 

Her gala barge that o'er glad crests did bound, 

Her four-wheeled car that on high days she 

drave, 
Her horses, sleighs, and all those objects brave 
Which royal dames in royal guise surround. . 

far-off Princess ! were these trinkets dear, 

These regal implements, inhumed with thee 
That thou mightst use them in another sphere — 

Some land beyond — some smooth ulterior sea? 
Not so, they say: these things were buried here 
Lest alien hands should mar their sanctity. 

ii 

Respectful custom! would it were our own 
To draw from man's contaminating reach 
Those loved, familiar relics that beseech 
Our living care, but yet so often thrown 
Upon a world whose sentiment is stone ! 

Would they were mounded on some northern 

beach 
Where breakers plunge and dark green billows 

bleach, 
Where sad storms sigh, and wind-worn pine- 
tufts moan, — 



26 IN AMERICA 

But mounded deep, unfathomably deep, 
Beyond the farthest desecrating thrust 
Of man's long arm. Nay! better yet a heap 

Of ash ■ — a pile of gray dispersive dust. 
For what, or who, can undented sleep 
Within the pale of keen, exploring lust? 

August, 1908. 



NOT SWEET 

Oh, yes, I know a girl 

Who is not sweet. 
Her cheek outvies the rose, 
And her smile outgleams the pearl, 

And her form is lithe and neat: 
But when her lip doth curl 
No charm doth predispose 

My foolish heart to beat, — 
No, no, she is not sweet! 
August, 1908. 



AURORA BOREALIS 

Impressive was that chill September night, 
When in an earnest, reverential mood, 
With all the sanctity of dusk imbued, 
I gazed transported on the Northern Light, 

Shooting great shifting beams — so softly bright - 
From out the distant mass of darkling wood 
Up to the swart, stupendous altitude 
Of loftiest stars — a wondrous, moving sight! 



IN AMERICA 27 

Imposing harmony! to sate the soul, 

And meet the want of our supremest taste, 
Or e'en of those who wear the aureole. 

With this illumination, full yet chaste, 

Man's more emphatic, vaunted rays compare, 
That scale into the void their vulgar glare! 

September, 1908. 



THE NIGHT COURT 

Some fourscore women nightly — so they say — 
Who walk like zealous barterers the street, 
Eager a full-pursed purchaser to greet, 
Ere rlameless avenues announce the day! 

They come before the judge, — then pass away; 
The hardened to a cell ; the tenderer meet 
With kindly counsel from a matron sweet 
Whose office is to care for them that stray. 

Yea, lust is lust, and so will ever be, 

And virtue aye will try the ill to cure, 
And poverty be ever poverty, 

While gold will always bitter want allure. 
But what can I, resourceless singer, do, 
Other than sing the ghastly tale to you? 
September, 1908. 



LARCHES 

Lace-like larches! last to turn 
Into airy webs of yellow 

While the oaks no longer burn, 

Maple leaves no longer mellow 
On the ridges stern. 



2% IN AMERICA 

Clouds are building on the blue, 

Doleful winds are weirdly sighing, 

Gray and lonesome is the view 

O'er the meadows slowly dying, 

Where sweet grasses grew. 

All has lost its color-bloom 

Save the lovely lace-like larches 

Gleaming on the dead brown gloom 

'Neath the lowering sky that arches 
Over Summer's tomb. 

Golden larches! like a hope 

That doth shine when life seems waning, 
Like the light, when one doth grope 

Through the gloom, his soul-sight straining, 
And the Heavens ope. 
October, 1908. 



A CONTEST 

What need, O Painter, of superb brocade, 

Of sumptuous damask, webs that spell the eyes, 

Or jeweled arms, or mellow ivories, 

Or carven woods with gold-leaf overlaid 

To still thy fretful brush? See what parade 

Autumnal foliage makes ! What splendor lies 
Upon the wolds, beneath the quivering skies! 
What incandescent light; what deep-dyed shade! 



IN AMERICA 29 

Behold yon great bouquet of gorgeous trees — 
Huge burning maples, flaming red and gold — 
The vinous oaks upon the tawny leas! 

Look, how they glow! Up, now, Venetians bold! 
Bring forth your canvases of richest hue, 
And I will match them with this splendid view. 

October, 1908. 



THE LAST PAGE 

Much as thou hast, O eager, youthful friend — 

The strength to crown with gold thine ardent 

will, 
The power thy zest for venture to fulfill, 
The force that even adamant can bend 

To thy desire, and what the past may lend 
Of wisdom, what sage volumes may instill 
Into the curious mind of good or ill — 
Yet not to mastery canst thou pretend. 

For thou hast not by heart that better book — 
The Book of Life, wherein alone are writ 
The wisest saws. As yet thou canst not look 

Upon its final page, whose words outwit 

Thy braggart strength and thine acquired lore — 
That final page which sums what goes before. 

October, 1908. 



30 IN AMERICA 



WRITTEN AT ELECTION TIME 

That I must cease to be, full well I know; 
And as the nearer I approach the end, 
So doth the lessening of life's measure tend 
To turn the eye upon the splendid glow 

Of large ideas — to follow up the flow 
Of altruistic streams, and thus ascend 
To springs of actions which the gods commend, 
That countervail the meaner deeds below. 

Wise Teacher, Death ! Oh, what are they to me, ■ 
These paltry wranglings of a selfish horde, 
These trite harangues of men who thirst for 
power, 

These tonguester-jousts devoid of chivalry? 

Oh, what are they to me, these things deplored, 
That my full-petaled life-growth would deflower? 

October, 1908. 



FOREARMED 

I hear the sad rain falling 

And the dank winds sighing, sighing, 

As day to night is dying, 
And my heart it sinks with pain. 

I hear sad spirits calling 

Above the storm-throes wailing, 
O'er sweet content prevailing — 

Aye, sadder than the rain. 



IN AMERICA 31 

Oh, why are ye forestalling 

With your grim, prophetic singing 
The end the Fates are bringing, 

While I in life remain? 

For Death is not appalling, 
And I am aye preparing 
To front his glance unsparing 

As though it were a gain. 
October, 1908. 



CONSOLATION 

After storm there cometh 

Weather fair, 
Then glad Nature summeth 

All the sweets of air. 

Larkspurs blue as ocean 

Stately rise, 
And with lordly motion 

Flick the skies. 

Silvery, glinting willows 

There abide 
Where the ripe grass billows 

On the wind's soft tide. 

In the garden growing 

Berries red 
On their green leaves glowing 

Luscious splendor shed. 



32 IN AMERICA 

Yet I miss a flower, — 

Ah! so sweet, — 

Whom at this fond hour 

I was sure to meet. 

Blue as very ocean 

Were her eyes, 

Stately was her motion 

As larkspurs on the skies. 



After storm there cometh 
Weather fair, 

E'en the reft heart summeth 

All the sweets of air. 
November, 1908. 



QUESTIONINGS 

Is it worth while to do the sterile thing, 
To pass the hour in unremitting deed 
* That neither garners grain, nor plants the 
seed 
Whence sweet ulterior joyances may spring 
And unto unknown men some thrill of pleasure bring? 

This question oft I ask when I prepare 

To gird myself for some unpregnant task 
Claiming its toll from life; yea, then I ask, 
Were it not well such service to forbear 
And hold the force in leash for some emprise more 
fair? 



IN AMERICA 33 

For that which I propose another can 

With defter hand and less of labor do, 
And with a heartier zeal the work pursue, 

While animating airs his efforts fan, 
And heaven and earth conspire to actuate his plan. 

Yet if a man on no attempt embark 

That is not suited to his native bent, 
Or fitted to his wayward temperament, 

How shall he shun the overwhelming dark 
Of dreary, idle hours unkindled by the spark? 

For well I know what natural task is mine, 
Wherein doth lie the vantage of a strength, 
Deploring not the working day's long 
length — 
The task on earth that nearest is divine, 
The task whose choicest fruit the earthly most 
decline. 



Again I question self: which shall it be, — 
The fruitful labor with its untouched fruit 
That chills the ardent song, that rifts the 
lute; 
Or barren toils that sweep the long days free 
From fevered dreams like winds from off the desert 

sea? 
December, 1908. 



34 IN AMERICA 



FAME ASSURED 

In sooth, old sceptic friend, my verse will live, 
Because some keen-nosed grubber in the soil 
Of literature — still-born or fugitive — 
Will use his college-woven, fine-meshed sieve, 
Not to retain the grains of larger song — 
For these would scarce remunerate his toil — 
But to heap up the long-forgotten throng 
Of bards minute, from which he may abstract 
From time to time (my very self in fact) 
Some tinkling particle, — a worthy act 
Eliciting the plaudits loud and long 
Of brother grubbers, who in truth exact 
This moilsome test of rare discrimination 
To hoist him to his proper elevation. 
December, 1908. 



THE GUERDON 

Why should we yearn for distant Paradise, 
Or strive for some far-off, immortal prize? 
The urgent moment's duty to fulfill, 
To hail the good, to ward the pending ill, 
Ah! should not that suffice? 

Why should we dream of bright, ulterior skies, 
Of high celestial light that never dies? 

The gleam from some unselfish act well done, 
The glow from daily hours serenely run, 
Oh! should not that suffice? 



IN AMERICA 35 

Why should we crave a Life which but implies 
A dastard fear of Death? A sweet emprise 

That may, perchance, endure adown the years, 
And balm some pain, or cool some burning tears, 
In sooth, that should suffice. 

To give the kindly word, to sympathize, 

To bring the joy into another's eyes, 

To mould the good, to make the better best, 
Until we be a Kingdom of the Blest, 

Ah! that — that should suffice. 

December, 1908. 



THE MOTIVE 

When wintry winds prevail and skies are dim, 
I dream of them, who leaving home and ease 
Embarked upon the savagest of seas 
To praise their God — perhaps the friends of 
him 

Who sang of Paradise and Seraphim, 

And faltering Man. Oh! what to such as these 
Were barren wolds, or swirling blasts that freeze, 
Or white-locked shores, or forests swart and 
grim? 

How different were they who braved not cold, 
But equatorial heat and fever-flame, 
To clutch the unoffending Incas' gold — 

Conquistadors, so called, a gory name! 

And we? Are we yet of our fathers' mould? 
Or do we share the lustful Spaniard's shame? 
December, 1908. 



36 IN AMERICA 



SELF-CENSURE 

Why dost thou blame thyself, O fair-souled friend, 
And dull the splendor of thy brilliant day? 
Armed cap-a-pie thou enterest the fray 
And to the stirring, turmoiled contest lend 

Thy head and hand and heart: but when the end 
Doth bring thee laureled triumph, thou dost say, 
"It was ill done," — dost cast the praise away, 
Because thy dream thine exploit did transcend. 

Blame not thyself ! nor note the meagre fault ! 
The world will only heed thy goodly fight 
And crowned mastery. Thou shouldst not halt 

To count the darkened spots upon the light: 
Think! e'en thy faultful victory may be 
A beacon o'er Eternity's wide sea. 

December, 1908. 



AFTER A SPECTACLE 

The wintry wind from off the sea is blowing, 
And roofs and streets are white; 

The heavens are dark, yet all beneath is glowing 
With a contrasting light. 

Man plays his play, awhile the gods are frowning 
Upon this tinseled earth: 



IN AMERICA 37 

" The gods be cursed," he coarsely cries whilst drown- 
ing 
His cares in vulgar mirth. 

And must I with this ribald rout be faring? 

Or shall I bide apart 
With a loved few, together all things sharing 

In purity of heart? 
January, 1909. 



THE NIGHT OF WATERLOO 

(At Quatre-Bras) 

What scenes of godless passion there that night 

Which should have languished to the peace of 

June! 
Foot, horse, and guns, hussar, and steeled 

dragoon 
Fled crazed before the Prussian appetite 

For blood. Beneath the spectral, flitting light 
Of a cold-hearted, unrelenting moon 
The naked, mangled dead were thickly strewn, 
Stark, untombed victims of the earlier fight. 

And He? Hard-by within a shot-pruned wood, 

He — who in battle-fume had sought his rest — 
Paler than those wan corpses mutely stood 

With folded arms upon his laboring breast: 

But his moist eyes were turned to where he 

threw 
His desperate stake — to fateful Waterloo. 

January, 1909. 



38 IN AMERICA 



TO THE NEW YEAR 

Apart I stand from off the moment's roar, 
Away I turn from what has gone before; 
O coming Year! ope, ope thy mystic door, 

That I may clearly see 
In thy great garnered halls whate'er may be 
Of pain or joy — if thou dost hold in store 
Or living bay, or yew and cypress tree. 
Nay! Open not thy port, O welcome Year; 
For neither would I know of smile or tear, 
Of long and anguished hours, or short-lived 
cheer; 

Since aye elate, 
And with high purpose animate, 
I would sweep bravely on to an uncertain fate. 
January, 1909. 



ACADEMIES 

Academies avail not but to sate 

A paltry vanity. They cannot raise 
The lofty by bestowal of their bays: 

They lift the little, but they lower the great. 
January, 1909. 



IN AMERICA 39 



THE KNELL 

Speak low ! I hear the dirge of the bells as they toll, 
It lifts aloud with the wind, with the wind it dies ; 

It floods and ebbs o'er the meads, o'er the hills as 
they roll 
Out to the dimming west, to fainting skies. 

Whose life is knelled? Whose lids are closed by the 
hand 

That grooms for Death? But yet it is one to me 
If the dead be a czar, or merely a clod of the land; 

Small matter so long as an o'ertired soul be free. 

Free from what? From the rack of life and its miserly 
meed: 
The pain outvalues the praise, more keen the 
sting; 
The praise we take as our due — it is right to suc- 
ceed — 
We are fledged to rise, not to fall, on a hardy 
wing. 

But a pinion is sure to droop, if we speed to our 
best, — 
And speed to our best we must, if conscience 
spur; — 
Then downward we flutter in shame to some low- 
lying nest, 
Where tainted miasmas creep, where the soulless 
err. 



40 IN AMERICA 

And there we lie in our plight, rehearsing defeat, 
Till defeat be overtold, and the ill be run : 

Yet if we be strong of heart, again shall we fleet 
To the uplands of blue — again to fall undone. 

Such is the span of alternate up and adown! 

The down outlingers the up — and that is well ; 
For as we lie prone we plan to gather the crown 

By an instant's rush to the crests where the 
guerdoned dwell. 

Not heeding the fall that we know must follow the 

flight, 

So once we arrive. Yet I would 't were the same 

to me 

This ever up and adown — the dark and the bright ! 

Then might I rest, and my soul serene would be. 

For I fear not the solemn dirge of the bells as they 
toll; 
Let it lift aloud with the wind, and let it die; 
Let it ebb and flood through the boughs that shadow 
the knoll 
Where I in the peace of the dead with my kin shall 
lie. 
February, 1909. 

AFTER A CERTAIN EXHIBITION 

Sweet Muse, whom I have homaged all my days 
Enraptured by thy chaste, Hellenic grace, 
Enchanted by the bloom of thy fair face, 
By thy pure smile, by thine exalting gaze, 



IN AMERICA 41 

Must I abjure thee for a passing craze 

That rank deformity would coarsely trace, 
And frontless brows, and hagdom's foul grimace, 
And all those things which thou dost aye dis- 
praise? 

Let those who will depict our fallen state, 

The lecher's lust, the cyprian's jaded cheek, 
Distempered brains that congruously mate 

With palsied forms, and garish hues that shriek, — 
Aye, let them as they will! Yet I shall be 
Ever a bondsman true, dear Muse, to thee. 

March, 1909. 



CERTAIN PLAYS 

Oh, stimulate them not, the moods that craze, 
That make God-imaged man so undivine, 
That draw the human closer to the swine! 
Oh, fan not up the passions till they blaze 

A terror to the chastened ones who gaze 

Appalled! God knows the natural incline 
To dark desires: Why, then, with base design 
Should we this native, low-born proneness raise? 

Some cloak indecencies with Art's fair name — 
Aye, those lascivious ones who know not Art, 
Who would her lovely chastity defame; 

But what of those who have a virtuous heart — 
Sweet womankind? Alas ! alas ! what shame 
That they these vicious dramas should acclaim! 

March, 1909. 



42 IN AMERICA 



THE MORNING AFTER 

As sweet it is to feast with frugal friends, 
So drear is it to pass a sumptuous eve 
With plutocrats who solemnly believe 
That gorgeousness a zest to pleasure lends, 

Or that a rank profusion makes amends 

For starving talk, that lucre can achieve 
A triumph of rare wit, nor yet perceive 
The brooding dullness which all thought tran- 
scends. 

Oh, what self-hatred follows on such nights 

When one awakes to greet the glorious morn, 
To meet the flooding sunshine that incites 

To purest deed, to breathe the air fresh-born. 

Oh, heaven ! How luring seem the day's delights, 
And how one holds the yester eve in scorn ! 

March, 1909. 



SUNSHINE AND SADNESS 

How gayly the sunshine doth taunt me 

To banish the thoughts that are blighting, 
To Nature's pure joyance inviting ! 

Sadness, Sadness, why haunt me, 

When all the fair world is beguiling, 

When ocean and islets are gleaming, 

When meadows and mountains are beaming, 

And loveliness everywhere smiling? 



IN AMERICA 43 

Yet ever is Sadness betiding, 

Though sunlight doth gladden the reaches, 
And though the clear skies are presiding 

O'er calm, and the white glowing beaches. 

Yes ! Ever is Sadness abiding, 
And ever mortality teaches. 
March, 1909. 



IN DREAMLAND 

I talked with Berenice in a dream, 

Gazing into her lustrous eyes: and though 
The passioned fire was faint, and the fierce glow 
Of Love was dim and pale, yet did it seem 

A solace sweet, this gentle after-gleam 

From a consuming flame of long ago, — 
Aye, gentle as the imaged stars that strow 
The bosom of a still, nocturnal stream. 

Oh, might an earth-sore mortal humbly dare 
To hope that all futurity may be 
One blessed dream on dream? That he may 
share 

In converse calm the eternal hours — free 

From stress, from pain, from never-ceasing 

care — 
With a beloved and godlike company? 

April, 1909. 



44 IN AMERICA 



ELDERS 



For us to whom few years remain, 
Could we but pass them not in vain, 
Could we amass what would be gain 

To poor mankind, 

We might in sooth live on content, 
And blink the pain with pleasure blent, 
And while sweet hours benevolent 

In love enshrined; 

For we should fare upon our way, 
And scatter largess day by day, 
Whilst men in gratitude would say, 

"Long may they live!" 

And from our life-long garnered store 
Of rubrics rare, of precious lore, 
Of nuggets from the grosser ore 

Profusely give: 

Or do some glorious marvel-thing 
That only from ripe years can spring, 
Soaring aloft on veteran wing 

That all may see, 

And wonder at the craft, and praise 
The head, the hand, awhile they gaze, 
And prayer to heaven loudly raise — 

"Long may they be." 



IN AMERICA 45 

Alas ! more often is the cry 
"Their task is o'er, they cannot fly, 
Their pinions droop — well, let them die, 
'T is better so; 

"For we shall profit by their fall, 
To us will come their hoarded all, 
To us shines white their funeral pall 

As gleaming snow. 

"Or if their work be rarely done, 
'T is ours their broken course to run, 
To gather in the prize they won 

Through length of year. 

"Since we inherit what they knew, 
Of life we have their widest view, 
Adding our younger span thereto 

Without a tear." 

Enough! the sun is setting fast, 
The falling night may be our last; 
Oh, why should we the dawn forecast, 
Or rack the soul 

With what hath been, with what may be? . 
But hush! there floats across the lea 
So soft as murmurs of the sea 

The evening knoll. 
April, 1909. 



46 IN AMERICA 



MID-JUNE 



June, 1909. 



Look! how the North-wind, 

Now breezing, now blowing, 

Romps through the rye-fields 
Like wild water flowing. 

Swift clouds o'er the welkin 
In triumph are racing, 

Their deep purple shadows 

Gold sun-flecks are chasing. 

A maiden is winding 

Her way through the billows 
Of red-tufted grasses 

Beneath the soft willows. 

O Maiden, O Maiden, 

Your charms quickly perish 
As the red- tufted grasses! 

But the picture I cherish. 



THE GREATER PAIN 

Not these, not these the days of cruel pain, 
As here I lie beneath pale faces bowed 
In sympathy; but when amid the crowd 
I was alone, and bore the steady strain 
Of self-possession with a well-feigned mien, 



IN AMERICA 47 

And caught its gayety , and laughed as loud ! 
What measure could it take of things unseen, 

Or yet divine 
What writhed beneath a masking so benign? 
June, 1909. 



OLD WINE 

As amber wine expressed from grapes that grow 
Upon the island nesting on the wave — 
Which parched Morocco's golden beaches lave — 
Is at its best whene'er its 'lurements flow 

From some long-slumbering flask, whose gray flanks 
show 
The dust age-gathered in their cobwebbed cave, 
And causeth nicest epicures to crave 
The draughts that to full years their flavor owe: 

So those rare words that from experience fall — 
Ripe words all garnished with the crust of time, 
The patina of age — of weal and woe — 

Should savor best. Come, then, O seneschal, 

Give us good cheer ! and toast old age in rhyme 
And amber quaffs enflasked long years ago ! 

July, 1909. 



LOVE FOR LIFE 

E'en as Saint Francis loved all living things 

That course clear streams, or cleave the buoyant 

air, 
That creep on earth, or haunt their bosky lair, 
So now to me — when youth no longer brings 



48 IN AMERICA 

The fierce desire to kill — there daily springs 
Within my gentler heart a tender care 
For harmless lives, ill-favored or yet fair, 
That humbly crawl, or soar on purfled wings. 

Oh, soften, Lord, the hardened souls of men ! 
Leave not to Age the love of Life to teach! 
Oh, make them now as kind to brutes as when 

In Paradise! What use for me to preach, 
So soon to go, and only one? But Thou? 
Wilt Thou man's overt cruelties allow? 

July, 1909. 



UNHEARD 

Oft when I lie in great, unuttered pain, 

I crave the quiet tendance of past years, 
The soothing hand, the wakeful ear that hears 
Unspoken agonies, the eyes that rain 

Compassion sweet. Oh, come to me again! 

Oh, come with love, and warm, remedial tears, 
With gentle touch, and dulcet voice that cheers, 
Oh, let me not invoke thy shade in vain ! 

Alas! dear Soul, thou hearest not my cries, 

And none among the quick may act for thee. 
I look upon the unresponding skies 

So heavenly blue, upon the fragrant lea, 

So rlowerful, yet mute. What sympathies 
Have they? What sure maternal love for me? 

August, 1909. 



IN AMERICA 49 



FAREWELL AND HAIL! 

Fair land of verdure, land of lushest green, 

With downcast soul I take my leave of thee, 
Of thy dense-wooded hills and daisied lea, 
Thy pallid willows trembling in the sheen 

Of silvery noontide light, — that arching screen 

The dimpled brooks through meadows winding 

free, — 
Thy sombre pine and white-limbed birchen tree, 
And all the beauties of thy sweet demesne. 

Farewell, O cherished land! And now I go 
To alien shores, but yet to me a home; 
For there long since in youth's romantic glow 

I wrought and loved beneath the soaring dome, 
Overtopping it with spiring dreams. And lo ! 
Once more I hail thee, everlasting Rome. 

September, 1909. 



IN ITALY 



IN ITALY 
<£ 

AT SEA 

Oh! not for me 
The drear monotony 
Of the vast, unverdured sea, 
Never a flowerful mead, 
Never a garnished tree, 

Nor a bosky hill, 

Nor a purling rill, 
As over the waves we speed; 

Naught do I heed 
But thy grim monotony, 

O vast gray sea ! 



September, 1909. 



VOYAGING 

In the soft salt mist 

I he and I list 
To the flow of the dull gray sea, 

Forever singing 

And always ringing 
A strange new harmony; 

Forever changing 

And ever ranging 



54 IN ITALY 

O'er days and doings to be; 
The past effacing 
As the prow is racing 

To the blue of Italy. 
September, 1909. 



THE ISLAND OF FLORES (AZORES) 

Fair Flores ! lifting from the deep blue wave, 

Bright floweret of the sea ! A shining cloud, 
That languishes upon the sky, doth shroud 
Thy peaks, and thy green wooded vales doth 
lave 

With pearly cataracts. So lovely ! save 

Those angry, foam-scourged reefs that danger- 
ous crowd 
Around thy cliffs, where many a vessel proud 
Hath swept her glories to a seething grave. 

But thou art fair, O Blossom of the sea, 

And myriad pastures crown thy cruel shore, 
All dappled with white farms; and grateful, too, 

To wave- worn souls who crave fertility. 

So like a joy 'mid sorrows long and sore 
That sudden looms on a bewildered view. 

October, 1909. 



IN ITALY 55 



OFF TRAFALGAR 

We pass a sandy cape — a golden shred 

Upon the ocean's blue. Then some one said, 

"Trafalgar." Oh, that memorable name, 

Proud England's glory, and the Frenchman's shame! 

October, 1909. 



A MEMORABLE DAY 

(October 6, 1909) 

The flaming sun was surging from the sea 
As we approached the incomparable bay, 
And pure perfection ushered in the day. 
Then Procida and Ischia on our lee 

Flushed in a wondrous light that seemed to be 
The very light of Heaven, and Naples lay 
In rosy sleep beneath the morning's gray 
Of fell Vesuvius in tranquillity. 

And when the orb was wending to the west, 

We took our lovely way 'twixt pearly peaks 
Mottled with sage-like green and shadows blue, 

And climbing towns that 'neath drear castles nest; 
Then from the plain which with grim history 

reeks, 
Of far-off Rome we caught the longed-for view. 

October, 1909. 



56 IN ITALY 



NEW ROME 

It is not that fair Rome which once I knew: 

Where picturesqueness wantoned, now there 

grows 
Nor flowering shrub, nor sweet monastic close, 
But streets and squares and stuccoed walls in 
lieu 

Of greenery — such things as artists rue — 
And trim villini in their gleaming rows, 
And vast embankments where the Tiber flows, 
And Trade's emblazonry to mar the view. 

Yet I regret it not, since now I gain 

A comelier view of Liberty and Right, 

And nobler aims, and Government more sane, 

And what will bear a fuller flame of light. 
I would not have it else: for I am fain 
To see white dawn emerging from swart night. 

October, 1909. 



THE FORUM 

The Forum! Oh, what changes there have been! 
Among the marble shards I feel my way, 
Each one a monument ! Now white, now gray, 
They take the splendor of a light serene 

That rays from western skies. And yet, I ween, 
The loveliness is less than on that day, 
When all uncaverned long ago it lay 
Beneath my gaze from the Capitoline. 



IN ITALY 57 

But what an ecstasy of joy I feel 

As I look upward on the imperial hill — 
Huge mass on mass ! Oh, what a note austere 

In the mild light ! What russet-reds reveal 

The up-piled walls! — low harmonies that thrill, 
Beneath the darkling ilexes severe. 

October, 1909. 



ON THE VIA NOMENTANA 

I pause in mid-Campagna: all around 

Roll waves of low-browed hills subdued and 
bare — 

A waste untenanted, save here and there 

An ancient tower upspringing from the ground, 
Or spreading pine, or farmstead. Not a sound 

Ruffs the sweet stillness of the October air. 

But oh, what shrieks beneath that surface fair ! 

What depths of infamy, what deeds renowned! 
Gennaro smiles, bedecked with shadows blue, 

Oblivious of the ghosts. The Alban height 

Broods not on crimes, but glads the southern 
view 
With purple tints, and townlets gleaming white. 

While from the western sky St. Peter's, too, 

Could waft its woe . . . But what a splendid 
sight! 
October, 1909. 



58 IN ITALY 



IN THE VILLA BORGHESE 

Gay sunlight glinting on the mellowing leaves ; 
A sky clear turquoise, from all vapors free 
(No gem could mate it in transparency) ; 
A fountain's jet that sweetly interweaves 

Its silver with the hues its niche receives 

From rays of purest gold — these joys to me 
Mean gratitude for sight. Ah, Italy 
Alone such triumphs of the eye achieves! 

But just aside, beneath the deepest shade 

Of bronzed ilex, — pale and dark and lean, — 
I note a bearded monk in robe of brown, 

Pacing with solemn step the gloomy glade. 
Oh, what to him does all this glory mean 
That gilds new Rome? The answer is his frown. 

November, 1909. 



STREET SCENE 

"Somebody down" 
In a broad and regal street 
Lying 'gainst the palace wall: 
And I saw the quivering feet 
And a ghastly face withal, 
While I heard the passers call, 

"Somebody down!" 



IN ITALY 59 

" Somebody down," 
But who? 
Was it nobleman or clown? 
I passed and never knew. 

It may come to me or you 
To-morrow or to-day 
In a wide frequented way, 
And some careless passer-by 
In mere indolence may cry, 
"Somebody down!" 
December, 1909. 



SONG-BIRD 

The day was harsh and hard and long; 
But when the sun was set I heard 
The warbling of a gentle bird 

That sweetened all the night with song. 
January, 19 10. 



ROMAN DAISIES 

Rose and white and golden-hearted, 

Like a maiden in her prime : 
Ah! the pain when I have parted: 
Soul-chilled in a wintry clime! 
February, 1910. 



6o IN ITALY 



IN THE VILLA MIRAFIORE 

To live and hear the South- wind blow — 

although 
The heart is mute; merely to be, 

and see 
A noble cypress bend and sway 

dark gray 
Against the stormy clouds that fly 

on high; 
One stressful day I thought was worth 

all Earth. 
February, 19 10. 



ROME TO CIVITA CASTELLANA 

With Memory standing near can I refrain 
From praising all the beauties of the day 
We fared along the old Flaminian Way, 
And saw Soracte surging from the plain, 

Its base all green with quivering, quickening grain, 
Its summit hoary with an ashen gray, 
While all around the stern Campagna lay, 
Yet now so genial from the springtide rain? 

We journeyed on and touched the Etrurian town 
Boasting a porch divine that hath no mate 
For inlaid art. Its age-worn buildings crown 

A hill deep-gorged which none may violate; 

While distant ranges on the heavens crowd 
Empurpled 'neath a white, convolving cloud. 

May, 1910. 



IN ITALY 61 



AT BRACCIANO 

From out the gloom of many a frescoed hall — 

Where Ruthlessness walked hand in hand with 

Art — 
In liberated mood, with lighter heart, 
I mount the topmost, battlemented wall. 

Oh, view of views ! what miracles enthrall 

My startled eyes ! Soft azure mists impart 
A heavenly tone to hill-slope, tower, and mart, 
And the fair lake — and my dark soul withal. 

world! I grovel through thy sombre ways, 

Thy darkling deeds, and all the fret that brings 
Depressing nights and drear, discouraged days : 

Yet sometimes do I rise on stalwart wings, 

And through the future's gleaming, hopeful 

haze 
Behold a nigh celestial state of things. 

May, 19 10. 



COMMEMORATIONS 

If on this fateful day thy hero died, 

Commemorate him not with trumpet blare, 
Nor fulsome speech; but to the listening air 
Thy quiet praise and reverence confide — 

Either when white-robed, chastest Dawn doth glide 
From out the dark ; or when the silvery glare 
Of Noon doth shine; or when soft Eve doth wear 
Her golden gown ; or Stars in heaven preside. 



62 IN ITALY 

For perfect homage should be wholly free 

From florid phrase, nor ever bear the taint 
Of loud, discordant, ill-wrought pageantry. 

So chant thy modest praise o'er land or sea, 

When noon is high or when the light grows faint, 
Alone, alone, in Nature's company! 

June, 1910. 



BUGLE-CALLS 

(Villa Mirafiore) 

When after slumbers of the night, 

I wake to greet the day new-born, 

Though half in dream-land, I delight 
To hear the bugles of the morn 
That waft through flowerets which adorn 

My terrace sweet, that knows no blight. 
June, 1910. 



FROM ROME TO CAPRAROLA, VITERBO, 
TOSCANELLA 

Resplendent was the sunlight of the day 
And fresh the air. The great Campagna lay 
A wealth of hue. Soft cloudlets gently rolled 
Their bluish shades upon the mountains gray, 
While nearer hills were lined with living gold — 

The gold of bourgeoning flowers 

Making so fair the hours 



IN ITALY 63 

Of morning, when to live is highest pleasure, 
When seeing seems to be our choicest treasure. 



Then Caprarola rose, a noble pile, 
Before prepared eyes, yet unprepared 
For playful grandeur in so pure a style, 
For lovely liberties that few have dared 
Within the classic pale. Did those who fared 

From venerable Rome 

To this gay, new-born home 
Thrill to the sight as e'en that day did I, 
When years on sobering years had wandered by, 
Leaving their patina divine? 

Yet would the lot were mine 

To see the gay attires — 
Satins, and silks, and gold, and flickering fires 
Of gems, and blades of wary, treacherous steel — 
Take up the splendor of the frescoed wall 
In all its garishness — a color carnival ! 
Are modern eyes less hale, or do we feel 

More tenderly 
That we prefer what years but half reveal? 

Perhaps, since sweet it was for me 

To gaze through graceful, gray arcades 
At fading arabesques on mellowing white, 
And hear the soothing song of old cascades 
And view Soracte in the noontide light 
Beyond the fruitful, undulating plain — 
A sea of bosky green and ripening golden grain. 

Great author 1 of these wondrous things, 
Great master of thy craft from which there springs 
1 Vignola. 



64 IN ITALY 

The inspiration of to-day, 

Canst thou not hear my lay? 
Dost thou not hear men say 
That often they have soared upon thy helpful wings? 

Fair villa Lante ! from whose leafy height — 
Where shades are scarcely flecked by glints of light — 
The freshest streams, almost articulate 

With fluent verse, do rapturous flow 
From mossy bowl to bowl until below 
They gush from out a fount of sculptured state, 
Where bronzed lions with bronzed athletes mate, 

Cooling the aromatic air 
That swoons above the formal, flowered parterre. 

Ah! but I find it well 
When all is glare, and shrill cicalas tell 
Of torrid heat, in such deep shades to dwell 
For a few hours: and if the centuries' grays, 

The dark-green oozing moss, 
The crumbling masonry proclaim the loss 
Of what were once high gala days, 

They do not sadden, 

Rather they gladden 
These artis tries of age — these fair decays. 

Viterbo ! how thou loomest black 
Against the Ciminian mount. If other towns 
Gleam gay and bright, or strike a livelier chord, 
If flooding light their by-gone horror drowns, 
Thy sombre towers and battlements bring back 
A dark, despotic past that ever warred 
On undefended right. Yet thou wert great 
And gorgeous when proud pontiffs held their state 



IN ITALY 65 

Within thy halls, when prelate, knight, and lord 
Paraded in their sumptuous pageantry. 

All gone — all gone — and now I see 
Naught but thy blackness. Yet thou hast for me 
One living, graphic tale writ by a hand 
Long dead 1 — a painter's hand of thine own land — 
One vital tale upon a crumbling wall. 

Oh! what more clearly could recall 
Thine evanescing, local past 
Than that procession vast 
Of portraitures limned to the very life. 

O reader, wouldst thou know the ways 
Of those old folk — their love of pomp, or gold, or 
strife — 
The great or little of their days, 
Look on that frescoed wall 
Which telleth all! 

How fair it was to cross the Etrurian plain 

When spirit and the morn were high! 
What quiet joy to sweep the practiced eye 
O'er the great tawny reach up to the chain 
Of wooded hills ! What pleasure to descry 
Red-kerchiefed women reaping in the fields 

Like poppies in ripe grain; 

To note the laboring wain; 
To sight the glowing broom that neither yields 

To saffron nor sheer gold; 
And then behold 
Quaint Toscanella crowning craggy heights 
All olive-sprent ! What sparkling, mellow lights 
The crumbling stones do fling upon a sky 
That challenges the sea for purity! 
1 Lorenzo da Viterbo. 



66 IN ITALY 

Oh ! mark those ancient shrines so picturesque — 
The rich arcade — the rose — the beasts grotesque — 
All girt with massive towers. 
For then and there 
Not e'en in prayer 
Was one secure from grim, malignant powers. 
Abandoned shrines! No more the need! 
How can an earnest spirit heed 
A disused House of God, whether he be 
Of that or alien faith without despondency! 
Is all religion dead? 
"So it would seem," I said, 
"And as humanity increases 
The growth of holy-places ceases." 

Enough, enough! The road now southward trends 
Through towns that crest the hills, and thence de- 
scends 
Into a wild ravine, whose shades defy 
The intemperate sun: I lift my gaze on high 
To see swart Sutri silhouette the sky. 
And now once more are glimpsed the Apennines, 
The great champaign all straked with gleaming lines 
Of myriad, urban walls — and there 's the Dome ! 

Yes, yes! 'T is sempiternal Rome: 
But even more to me — shall I say home ? 
July, 1910. 

A PENANCE 

One torrid afternoon in mid- July 

Upon the mighty flight of steps that rise 

Up to Maggiore's apse — so scorched that eyes 

Could scarcely pause thereon — I chanced to spy 



IN ITALY 67 

A woman draped in black: nor did she try- 
To shun the awful heat, since in this wise 
She seemed some greater sin to compromise, 
Some carnal appetite to mortify. 

Perhaps the flaming morrow she was there 

On those vast stairs of parching travertine, 
Indifferent to heat, absorbed in prayer — 

The very torment a sweet anodyne ! 

O Sun! who would not court thy fiery ray 
Could it but burn a hateful sin away? 

July, 19 10. 



LiETITIA 

(Madame Mere) 

There is no meeter place to mourn than where 
The ruined Coliseum masses still 
Its weathered stones, or 'neath the royal hill 
Where lies Rome's marbled wreck. And it was 
there 

She often sat in her untamed despair — 

Laetitia, mother of the deeds that thrill, 

Sad mother of the destinies that chill, 

Of peerless pride, of grief without compare. 

O grave Imperial Mother ! thou hast heard 
That on a far-off, oceaned, rockbound isle 
The heart-beats of thy hero come more slow: 

Yet should the Nations give the longed-for word, 
Nor blindness, nor thy years, nor mile on mile 
Of surge would bar thee from him — thou 
wouldst go. 

August, 1910. 



68 IN ITALY 



AVOWALS 

Have I labored? 
Ask the ever-revolving Earth, and the patient planets 
toiling round the Sun if they have labored. 

Have I loved? 
Ask the glowing stars that shed their radiance on up- 
turned, amorous eyes. 

Have I suffered? 
Thinkest thou that the myriad, martyred shades 

have suffered? Ask thou them! 
August, 1910. 



AT RIMINI 

(Duomo o Tempio Malatestiano?) 

Temple or Church? what should we call this fane — 
Alberti's miracle — unfinished shrine 
To sweet Isotta whom he called "divine" 
In God's own house, the tyrant who had slain 

Three lawful wives, to whom the crime of Cain 
Was nothingness? Yet did he intertwine 
The blazonry of this fair concubine 
With his own arms, that Christ might bless the 
twain. 

Strange brew of blood! which recognized no bound 
To savage treachery or cruel lust, 
Which groveling sought red-handed to com- 
pound 



IN ITALY 69 

Its guilt with Heaven. But venerate we must 
Its zeal for Art, the reverence profound 
That brought from far-off Greece a Scholar's 
dust. 

October, 1910. 



TEMPERANCE 

I spoke the coolest words to-day 
When all my heart was burning, 

I found pacific things to say 

When I in wrath was spurning 

A blusterer's taunt, his vulgar way, 
Fair speech for foul returning. 
October, 1910. 



PORTUGAL 

(October 7, 19 10) 

Ofttimes some glorious news relieves the pain, 
Or lights the burden of a mordant wrong, 
And shortens hours that erewhile seemed so 

long, 
Or lifts a soul that in the dust hath lain. 

To-day there wafts from off the western main 
A cry of Liberty — a people's song 
Of Victory — the paean of a throng 
That long hath suffered from the kingly bane. 

Oh ! follow them, all ye who would aspire 

To self-respect, to catch the splendid glow 
Of peerdom to the best, to feel the fire 



70 IN ITALY 

Of unrestricted strength. Oh ! be not slow 
To rival them, to join the waxing choir 
Of myriad throats that shout, "the kings must 
go." 

October, 19 10. 



SLEEP ON! 



Thou liest dead before me. Sleep thou on, 
Sweet soul, and sleep thou, too, O Memory! 
For I would never that there came to me 
Thine image while the living radiance shone 
From out thine eyes, and joy enraptured thee. 
Nor would I ever see again those eyes 
So wide and anguished, and their mild appeal 
Before the half-closed whitening lids did seal 
Their lessening light, and Death did solemnize 
The scene. Forever sleep, O Memories! 

11 

I laid thee in the noble laurel-grove 

Thou lov'dst so well, whose bourgeoning branches 

wove 
A canopy of lustrous leaves to ward 
The splendor of the sun: and if by chance 
I toiled nearby with Art, it did enhance 
Thy calm content, and perfect joy afford. 
And thine occasional song did well accord 
With the south-laden wind that softly lyred 
Through the great towering pines, while I was fired 



IN ITALY 71 

By thy sweet, chaste restraint to loftier aim, 
Thy very calmness kindling me to flame. 

in 

For many a day I dared not see thy grave, 
Fearing its memories. Nor was I brave 
Enough to bear an agonizing sight 
That would rehearse the past — the vital light 
Fading from thy dear eyes, and the sure night 
Of thy sad, lowering eve. But then there came 
A time when to my unimpassioned grief 
I deemed it would confer a sure relief 
Were I to murmur to myself thy name 
Standing beside the fresh-turned, mounded earth 
Lying above thee — who to me were worth 
All Art — all Song. And lo ! a laborer's hand, 
Who knew my love for thee, with a fair band 
Of flowering plants had girdled all the mound. 
And so, dear Heart, in my lone pain I found 
Sweet, unexpected sympathy. O friend! 
Humble, yet high, who in sore strait didst lend 
Thine aid, for this thy gentle thought I send 
Thee mournful thanks. But thou, my Love, sleep 

long 
Below those shining berried laurel leaves! 
And when the kindly Fate, who daily weaves 
My destiny, shall say at length " 't is done," 
Then let me rest from Painting and from Song 
To lie beside thee 'neath the southern sun. 
October, 19 10. 



72 IN ITALY 



GRIM WINTER 

Snow falls upon the peaks; and on my soul 
Fall the cold flakes of colorless despair. 
The fierce wind blows, and all the ravening air 
Shrills its bleak advent from the northern pole. 

Then my congealing spirits sadly toll 

Their death in life — that were so summer- 
fair — 
Their chill repose within grim winter's lair, 
Awhile my days fleet onward to their goal. 

Ah! could my being fly to palmy isles 
That couch upon a sultry, azure sea, 
Like flocks that warp their flight from arctic 
climes 

To carol in some genial realm which smiles 
Beneath a tropic sun, — oh, then to me 
Might come gay moods to color these wan 
rhymes! 

November, 1910. 



DE PATRIA 



My Country, what high hopes I have for thee! 
What consummations of my loftiest dreams ! 
What radiance fair beneficently beams 
From out thy Star of pure Democracy! 



IN ITALY 73 

Yea, thou shouldst be a guide to all the free — 
A holy beacon-flame that brightly gleams 
To groping man — a blessed land that teems 
With peaceful arts — a land of jubilee. 

Yet when I see thee falter on thy way 

To sweet perfection, or whene'er I hear 
From alien lips that thou dost not maintain 

Thy standard high, and when thy critics say 

That thou from thy true course dost sadly veer, 
Oh, then I feel unutterable pain ! 

November, 19 10. 



II 

I look upon the wide unfolding view 

Of classic plain and cloud-flecked Apennine — 

A scene of desolation, yet divine 

In soft gradations of the loveliest hue — 

So old and story- worn ! yet ever new 

To feeling eyes. Alas ! it brings to mine 
The great Republic's rise, and sure decline 
When o'er its hills the imperial eagle flew. 

My countrymen ! 't is not those faults I fear 

That time and growing wisdom may correct 
Despite their gravity: but most I dread 

That One the multitude should domineer. 
Oh! be ye ever stanch and circumspect 
To guard the rights for which our Fathers bled! 

November, 19 10. 



74 IN ITALY 



SONG — IN DECEMBER 

When the winds are high, 
And the swart clouds fly, 
When all things seem 

awry, awry; 

When the days are cold 
And the storm-fiends bold, 
Then my thoughts remain 

untold, untold. 

But who shall say 
If a summer's day 
Might my winter dreams 

betray, betray, 

And the latent fire 
Of my heart's desire 
Might find its voice 

on my lyre, my lyre? 
December, 1910. 



O DAWN 

Be thou, O chastest Dawn, my constant bride! 
I love thee for the rosy light that shines 
Beyond the ridges of the Apennines 
Yet mantled with the night, that now divide 



IN ITALY 75 

Us from the day. The day? What shall betide 
Ere the great Sun upon the wave declines? 
I know not — none but God himself divines: 
But rest thou ever, Sweetest, by my side: 

For thou art Hope, beloved, purest Dawn, 

And thou dost rouse me after grateful sleep, 
And I am heartened by thy waxing light 

That sparkles on the wakening, dew-sprent lawn, 
That puts to rout night's boding shadows deep, 
That maketh all the coming hours seem bright. 

December, 19 10. 



WE ARTISTS 

Do we who dream of lovely things, 

Who shun the foul, who court the fair; 

Do we who soar on irised wings 

To breathe a purer, heavenly air; 

Do we who haunt Castalian springs 

Endure without a soul-drawn sigh 

The wonder-works of sordid men? 

Do we the poor, who deify 

Sweet Nature's realm, admire the den 

Of Mammon's whelps? We live and die 

To give the world a comelier face, 
To amplify man's happiness; 

Can we abide the avid race 

That adds and adds yet makes it less 

For selfish ends? We would replace 



76 IN ITALY 

The thorns that agonize life's way 

With velvet greens and fragrant flowers; 

And yet the sons of Traffic say 

We are not wise! — But be it ours 

To keep aflame the eternal fray 

For what will turn the years more bright 
To those who live with longing eyes, 

To those robbed souls who hold the right 
To see fair things, whose paradise 

Is not grim gain — the fool's delight. 
December, 19 10. 



THE STATUE AND THE BUTTERFLY 

On one of those resplendent Roman days, 

When dark-green foliage gleams, when skies are 

clear, 
And far-off, snow-capped Apennines seem near, 
I saw a butterfly with scarlet rays 

Alight upon a statue all ablaze 

With genial beams — a thing of brief career 

Upon an ancient waif of mien austere, 

Yet lovely, too, with flecks of gold and grays. 

Moreover I, the creature of an hour, 

Do love to bask in this old ruined Rome, 
To dream beneath the ilex, and the pine, 

And russet wall, that Time doth ne'er deflower: 
For 't is my goddess Beauty's classic home, 
And I would linger in her haunts divine. 

January, 191 i. 



IN ITALY 77 



SOUTH-WIND 

soft South-wind that kindly cloudest wintry skies, 

Bring thou me health! 
Mild, gray South-wind that comf ortest my tired eyes 

Blinded with wealth 
Of unveiled hues, oh, pour into congealing veins 

The lymph of life! 
Bring with thee, warm South-wind, those calm, per- 
suasive rains 

That lay the strife 
Of North-born gales which sway the cypress and the 
pine 

Upon the vault 
Of heaven, deep blue as on a rich Byzantine shrine! 

Oh come! exalt 
My poor prone soul, and hearten me so long deprest 

For love of thee ! 
For thou dost make me think of times long past, yet 
blest 

In memory, 
When in a garden winter-marred — yet now so far — 

Where neither pine 
Wide-roofed, nor cypress grow, but where bright 
Freedom's star 

Doth ever shine, 

1 felt upon a convalescent, pallid cheek 

Thy touch so sweet: 
And though the rugged hills and reaching meads 
were bleak, 

Yet at my feet 



78 IN ITALY 

Bloomed flowers. soft South- wind! I love thy 
very name — 

Thy pearly grays 
That mantle mountain snows — thy sighings that 
proclaim 

Dear springtide days. 
February, 191 i. 

THE DESTROYER 

In the joy, the wild exaltation, the blinding bliss of 
young love, 

I deemed it a gift of the goddess, soft fanned by 
white plumes of the dove; 

I thought it a largess unearthly that dropped from 
the azure above, 

Yet now that I gaze on its madness, its flames no tor- 
rent can quell 

Consuming the brain and the body, and when its 
chroniclers tell 

Of the wrath, of the blood, of the torture, it seemeth 
an issue of hell. 

Thank God ! my decades forbid it, that its pains for 
me are no more, 

That Eros gold-winged will not join me on my way 
to the deep-shaded shore: 

But thou, pale Pity, be with me, that I in thine ear 
may deplore 

The foredoomed wreck and destruction of the ar- 
dent, beautiful young 

On the crests with false Aphrodite — adrift with 
heart-strings unstrung — 

Some splendid promise that passeth, ere its fruitage 
be garnered or sung. 



IN ITALY 79 

Why grieve, my soul? what matters whether this 
one or that one shall fare 

Or well or ill with fell Love? whether this one or that 
one shall dare 

To cleave to or flee the gold-winged? thou canst not 
by precept prepare 

The heart for its grave. Why grieve then? Oh, who 
can stand calm to the fate 

Of a being informed by the Muses, of a spirit born to 
create 

The things that raise us to heaven, to dim our terres- 
trial state? 

Not I, oh not I ! who ever the eclipse of a genius shall 
mourn 

That riseth o'er low-toned horizons like a moon 
which is radiantly born 

Of the darkling summits of mountains, or moaning 
breakers forlorn; 

I shall ever cry in my anguish, "O Love, whom I 
cherished of yore, 

Thou hast spent a flame sempiternal, hast left me 
to weep with no more 

Than a husk of inanimate flesh — of what was god- 
like before." 

March, 191 i. 



"SAILORS OF OLD SALEM" 

And are we lesser men than those of yore? " 
I queried, when the book was laid aside: 
They took the awful ocean for a bride 
Before their manhood came. In crafts no more 



80 IN ITALY 

Than fluted shells they sought the uncharted shore, 
Braving whatever peril might betide, — 
The wild typhoon, the ruffians who deride 
Or God or man, and seething shoals that roar. 

No vulgar vikings were these men of old, 
But mariners of fortitude and sense, 
High disciplined upon the exacting sea, 

Thriving in peace, yet in the conflict bold. 

O Country! have we kindred sources whence 
To draw such sturdy life and safeguard thee? 

March, 1911. 



THE LARGER ART 

An "artist" am I? — not enough for me 

That gentle term in its restricted sense — 
One who would with a deft intelligence 
Portray material things. Although it be 

No poor acquirement with joy to see 

Some lovely fact, and with due reverence 
Exalt it to a beauty more intense, 
Yet do I often feel Art's poverty. 

But if by "artist," brother, thou dost mean 

One who doth note man's makeshift moral state, 
His selfish aims, the cult of all the beast 

In him — one who would make his soul more clean, 
And with ideals his spirit animate, 
Then gladly would I be Art's lowliest priest. 

March, 191 i. 



IN ITALY 81 



THE SCAR 



Look at the scar upon that lovely arm, 

Moulded to mate a masterwork of Greece, 
Fair-jointed, hard, and smooth as downiest 

fleece — 
A trifling scar that gave but scant alarm 

When red blood flowed to dye its ivory charm. 
Still it is always there! The years increase 
But yet the blemish doth not ever cease — 
The Beauty always — always too the Harm. 

A friendship had I, perfect in its way, 

And comely as the arm that bears the scar: 
But in the course of time there came a day 

When some small variance did slightly mar 

Its harmony. "We are good friends," I say, 
Yet always do I hear faint notes that jar. 

March, 1911. 



TO A SONGSTRESS 

Resplendent woman! thou standest on the stage 
Like an heroic statue in its niche: 
From out thy noble throat pour notes so rich 
They might with seraphim's claim parentage. 

Beneath soft garment-folds enrapt I gauge 

The beauties of thy plastic limbs, yet which 
Seem swaying to thy voice's varying pitch — 
A child of Song ! of Love the appanage ! 



82 IN ITALY 

Stand perfect where thou art, and come not near ! 

Nor would I move a hair's-breadth unto thee, 

Even didst thou invite; for I should fear 
Some blemish might reveal itself to me. 

Stand where thou art! since thus thou dost ap- 
pear 

Wrapt in my haloing ideality. 
March, 191 i. 



THE "CINQUANTENARIO" 

Oh! what to me 
Are all these bright pavilioned streets, 
The idle throng that gayly greets 

This pageantry? 

Oh! what to me 
The ornate speech, the long harangue, 
The gloss of courts, the bells that clang? 

All Vanity! 

Or yet again, 
What mean to me the gaudy camp, 
The bugle-call, the serried tramp 

Of peaceful men? 

For I can see 
Athwart the film of fifty years 
(When we were racked with hopes and fears) 

For Italy), — 



IN ITALY S3 

Yea! I can see 
The banners stream o'er ardent men 
Who crowned the breach, who battled then 

For Victory. 

And I can hear 
The people's greeting — once more free — 
Their maddened cry of "Liberty" 

To them so dear. 

Ah! those the days 
Of sternest strife and sacrifice, 
Of deeds that souls immortalize 

Beyond our praise. 

And so to me 
This pageantry seems mock and mean: 
It is not so — but I have seen 

Reality. 
April, 191 i. 



PALERMO 

Had will the power perfection to devise 

It would have made the morn that blessed mine 

eye 
When first it scanned the pearly walls that lie 
Upon soft blue. Bright golden cliffs arise 



84 IN ITALY 

lrom slopes of olive green, while opal skies 
Diffuse their orient tones to glorify 
The dream-like view. To love — to live — to 

die 
Were all in all in such a paradise. 

And this the place wherein the tale is told 

Of ceaseless war and red envenomed strife ! 
The loveliness remains, the rest is run; 

And all is wealth of green and blue and gold. 
Yea, Peace prevails, and doubly sweet is life 
Beneath the blithe obliterating sun. 

May, 191 i. 



MONREALE 

The mind is dazed within this wondrous shrine — 
This vast receptacle of storied gold, 
Whose glittering walls the books of God unfold. 
What light and shade ! What harmonies divine ! 

And how the vitreous cubes supremely shine 

E'en in the darkest coins! Ah, they were bold, — 
Those skillful men, those Byzantines of old, — 
To dream this sumptuous, aureate design. 

Now come into the air, and take the view 

That merits well its name of "golden shell": 
Light, languorous vapors cast faint shades of 
blue 

Upon the girding peaks; the plain doth smell 

Like to a bridal wreath — so sweet the flowers 
That fling their odors to the springtide hours. 

May, 1911. 



IN ITALY 85 



SEGESTA 

Far up the towering hills there flows a stream 

All banked with Maytime's gayest, bravest 

hue — 
Yellows that flame like suns, and radiant blue, 
And reds that mid the vernal grasses gleam. 

Beyond, a path through rising fields that teem 
With waving grain leads to a sudden view 
Of what is old, but yet is ever new 
To those who love all loveliness, I deem. 

A temple stands majestic and serene 

In quiet tones against a barren height, — 
So stately in its lofty loneliness! 

Oh ! many a noble ruin have I seen 

That took my raptured eye; but rarely sight 
Did ever more my marveling gaze impress. 

May, 191 i. 



GIRGENTI 

Rich golden brown these Doric temples rise 

From out the tawny crest flecked here and there 
With almond groves and fruitful olives fair. 
Below, the blue and emerald ocean lies; 

Above expand the riant, flawless skies. 

Ah, in their prime what wealth of color rare 
Decked architrave and frieze — alas, now bare, 
But sumptuous in their age-worn harmonies! 



86 IN ITALY 

A scene of Peace, yet sealed by Destiny: 
Its very quietude doth seem to speak; 
For now I catch the Carthaginian cry 

And awful death-groans of the vanquished Greek. 
Good God ! Why ever read of times gone by, 
If one must always hear foul History's shriek ! 

May, 1911. 



SYRACUSE 

The splendor and the greatness are no more, 
Yet there remains the flowerful loveliness, 
And many a sight the tender eye to bless. 
A strong wind blows — one hears the sea-waves 
roar — 

Look, — how it spreads the deep blue on the shore ! 
And see, — what grace of line do they express, 
Those serried theatre-curves! If life be less, 
The charm, perchance, is greater than before. 

Ah, but the tale of those vast quarries deep 

O'ergrown with vines and peaceful olive-trees! 
And oh, what harrowing memories there sleep 

Within those awful tombs! Upon the breeze 

Methinks are borne from up those dungeons 

steep 
The captives' chanting of Euripides. 

May, 1911. 



IN ITALY 87 



TAORMINA 

And there are ruins here; but what are they 

To charm the eye that rapturous sweeps a scene 
From snow-capped y£tna to the blue serene 
Of seas that bend in many a pearl-fringed bay ? 

And crags there are, close-ribbed with green and gray, 
And crowned with jagged fortresses that lean 
Upon a sky oft broken by the sheen 
Of argent clouds which o'er the azure stray. 

Nor is this all; for here do fruits and flowers 
Grow in the ease of wild luxuriance, 
And there are gardens filled with fragrant bowers, 

And all the garniture of rich romance. 

Ah, what a place for world- worn souls to dwell, — 
More meet than fields of heavenly asphodel! 

May, 191 i. 



FAREWELL TO SICILY 

From thee, O fair, divine Sicilian land, 

I take reluctant leave, and sing farewell 

To those dear ravishments that cast their spell 

On eyes that never have more beauty scanned. 

E'en as I rhyme I see thy blue-bound strand 
And shining top of thy volcano fell, 
But lovelier now than faltering tongue can tell, 
Awhile my cheeks by perfumed airs are fanned. 



88 IN ITALY 

Adieu, adieu, I write with saddening heart; 

For well I know when from the north there 
blows 

An icy wind, and winter burdens me, 
And balmy summer-gladness doth depart, 

That I shall yearn for orange-bloom and rose, 

And all the sweets that appertain to thee. 
May, 191 1. 



FROM AGROPOLI TO PiESTUM 

Light clouds were hanging on the peaks of morn 
That margined all the dewy, reedy plain; 
The sea was gray; along the road a train 
Of women thronged to their far toil forlorn. 

Alas ! of beauty most of them were shorn, 
Showing the hollow eye of fever-bane, 
Or marred by cruel work. And oh ! what pain 
To see such life — so young and yet so worn. 

But when the sun broke forth and smote the face 
Of Neptune's temple, gilding its rich hues 
Upon the lights, and deepening its deep shades — 

A mellow mass from pediment to base — 

Ah, then I thought how Time with charm in- 
dues 
Unsentient things, and how it flesh degrades! 

May, 191 i. 



IN ITALY 89 



IN THE "BOSCO 3 



The shimmer on the ilex trees, 
The soothing of the western breeze, 
The song of birds, the plash of fountain, 
And in the East the misty mountain, 
Oh! such delights to hear and see: 
Yea, these the sweets that come to me! 
June, 191 i. 



OPPRESSIVE BEAUTY 

I find the world too fair for idle hours; 
The dappled, bronzed shade, the crimson flowers, 
The fountain-foam, the song of birds oppress 
By very loveliness. 

Sad as a dirge doth seem the soughing breeze 
That wafts from off the blue Tyrrhenian seas, 
And lutes through ilex, fir, and pine 

As I at ease recline 

Upon cool sward, and unlaborious dream, 
Awhile the flicker of the noon-tide beam 
Begems the darkness of the ivy deep 

That round the laurels creep. 

The utter beauty of the earth and sky 

Brings not the smile — nay, rather draws the sigh, 

And oft the glamour of the world doth irk : 

And then — " Oh, give me work ! 



9 o IN ITALY 

I cry, — "Oh, give me work!" since therein lies 
The loveliest, calmest, sweetest paradise, 
Whose splendor nothing mundane may outshine 

The surest anodyne. 
July, 191 i. 



AT VALLOMBROSA 

In Rome I dream of Byron, Shelley, Keats, 
The verdured ruins that their fancies fired, 
The storied beauties that their hearts desired, 
The classic aura that no time deletes, 

The tawny stream, the squares, the tortuous streets, 
And that small room where one of them ex- 
pired — 
The youngest of the three that sweetly lyred — 
Who sit secure on high Parnassian seats. 

But here amid the gloom of towering fir 

And massive beech, which makes the summer 

sun 
A thing to scorn, I note the leaves that throng 

The Etrurian brooks, and mark the rhythmic stir 
Of gentle gales that through the foliage run, 
And muse on Milton's monumental song. 

August, 1911. 



PIAZZA DEL DUOMO, ORVIETO 

I saw it in the early morning light — 

That fine facade — that broidered web of gold, 
Of fretted stone, of colors manifold: 
And what at set of sun seemed overbright 



IN ITALY 91 

Was softened by the lingering mists of night — 
A graceful, azured shadow rising cold 
Upon a beaming sky ! Who might withhold 
His ecstasies at such a glorious sight? 

How tranquil was the scene, how fresh the air, 
How lovely all those things that souls endow 
With utter peace and joy! It would be sweet 

To stand again enrapt in that small square 
Before its jeweled shrine, which even now 
Down Memory's aisles doth make my pulses 
beat! 

September, 191 1. 



PIAZZA DEL DUOMO, PIENZA 

Another cresting town! where he was born, 

The poet-pope who gave the place its name, 

And gifted it with immemorial fame 

In those sure eyes that love the chastened morn 

Of Renaissance. And if it now be shorn 

Of pomp and pageantry, we must not blame 
Deflowering time; rather should we acclaim 
Its mellowing touch that these pure forms adorn. 

And this fair square was built in three swift years ! 
What frenzies had those pontiffs in a life 
To high ambitions so inadequate! 

What furious haste was theirs, what harrowing fears, 
What harsh impatiencies, what acrid strife 
To make, to build, to do ere clipped by Fate ! 

September, 191 i. 



92 IN ITALY 



PIAZZA DEL DUOMO, SIENA 

You mount a sombre, mediaeval street, 

Walled by a masonry deep-dyed by time, 
That echoes factions, revelries, and crime; 
You pass beneath an arch, and there doth greet 

Your gaze a sight immeasurably sweet — 

A blaze of light — an architectural rhyme 
Of fashioned stone — an edifice sublime, 
As candid as a maiden's winding sheet. 

And so we pass from gloom to radiant joy, 

From darkling ways to spaces flashing light, 
From depths infernal to high spheres divine: 

Yet even glory hath its swart alloy — 

Some thin dark shadow that doth streak the 

white, 
As sable marble ribs this glowing shrine. 

September, 1911. 



RETURN TO SIENA 

Years have rolled their burdens o'er me, but the place 

is much the same 
As it was in flush of life-time, when an ardent youth 

I came 
With the star of Hope a-gleaming, with Desire all 

aflame. 



IN ITALY 93 

Still I see the stately buildings reared in mediaeval 

time, 
Gemel windows, round-arched loggias, and the shaft 

that soars sublime 
Into breezes scarce believing it to be but brick and 

lime. 

As I raise my aging eye-lids, cool against the mid-day 
light 

I behold a graceful profile banded o'er with black and 
white, 

Tinted by the brush of aeons, bettered by the cen- 
turies' flight. 

And beyond the hoary roof-tops sweeps a long fa- 
miliar view, 

Silver olives, shining villas, fields that every year 
renew 

Copious crops from constant tillage — and afar the 
mountains blue. 

Aye ! the same are those Madonnas gazing with By- 
zantine eyes, 

Throning on their golden panels o'er the saints of 
paradise, 

With the winged ones of heaven soaring on cerulean 
skies. 

And the frescoes? Oh, the marvel ! — Pinturicchio's 
splendid shrine, 

Wall and ceiling both combining to assert a work di- 
vine. 

Happy Pius! — pope and scholar — happy his im- 
mortal line 



94 IN ITALY 

(Thanks to thee sumptuous painter)! What! shall 

I not rhyme of him 1 
Who the gracious forms of women, who a swooning 

saint could limn, 
Who could paint angelic children worthy of the 

cherubim? 

But of paneled gold and cherubs, let me versify no 

more: 
I would look upon the villa — cypressed villa — 

where of yore 
Lived I with a budding household (and wherein 

there dwelt before 

Artists, scholars, aye and poets whom the world has 

proudly known), 
Trusting in exalted moments — moments that the 

years dethrone — 
I might add to their green laurels, blooming chaplets 

of my own. 

Massive walls with ample chambers! views that 

naught but mist can mar, 
Nothing to impede the vision, nothing that the eyes 

debar 
Till they rest on Amiata looming gracefully afar! 

There's the bosquet ever shaded through the longest 
summer day, 

Gentle laurel, sterner cypress, paths wherein I used 
to stray 

Dreaming, sketching, often watching wife and chil- 
dren at their play. 

3 Sodoma. 



IN ITALY 95 

Here they thrashed the grain in August, there they 
pressed the olive's oil, 

Yonder did they tread the clusters — happy peas- 
ants in their toil, 

Living on a frugal diet, reaping heartsease from the soil. 

Through a maze of halls I wander till I reach the 

music-room, 
Where in youth's insatiate spirits did we with gay 

friends presume 
To interpret all the Masters, while the planets broke 

night's gloom. 

Gone are many — some remaining, whose good 

hands I pressed to-day, 
Living much as when I left them; if their hairs be 

turning gray, 
Yet their centuries of breeding courteous manners 

still betray. 

Happy springtide of existence! year on year has 

passed since then, 
Happy hours of young ambitions ! would I live them 

o'er again? 
Not for almond-eyed Madonnas, not for gifts of gods 

or men! 

What is past is past forever, I love not the backward 

view: 
Hateful are its chafing errors, and the triumphs far 

too few; 
Let the old then be forgotten, and though old I hail 

the new! 
September, 191 i. 



96 IN ITALY 



TRIPOLI 

(September 29, 191 1) 

For thy great beauty have I loved thee long, 
O Italy, — thy blooming, fruitful plains, 
Thy noble wastes o'erarched by proud remains, 
Thy classic vales, the comely towns that throng 

Thine olived hills, thine art supreme no song 

Can homage with its sweetest, utmost strains, 

Thy stately palaces, thy shapely fanes, 

And all those ravishments that make thee strong. 

So long as thou didst stand for Liberty, 

Wert lavish of thy blood, though destitute, 
My intellect and heart went out to thee: 

But now that thou dost choose to prosecute 
Thy selfish aims beyond the girding sea, 
My heart no longer throbs, my praise is mute. 

September, 191 1. 



NINFA 

There lifts from off the plain a tawny tower 

Oft freaked with gray: the rugged Volscian 

hills — 
Whose olived slopes the plodding- peasant tills — 
Indent the orient sky; while flower on flower 

Of lovely hue, and vagrant vines embower 
The grim decay that all the meadow fills: 
For here doth Fever brood, and here distills 
Her poisons from the early summer shower. 



IN ITALY 97 

I stood upon an arch that spans a stream 

Clear as an arctic berg, and watched it flow 
Through the lush wreckage of a transient past, 

Taking the eternal heavens' cloud-flecked gleam: 
And, pondering on that life of long ago, 
I strove our own futurity to cast. 

October, 191 i. 



FAREWELL TO ROME 

I thought farewell was said long years ago, 
That never in the course of loitering time 
Should I behold again thy state sublime: 

Yet shifting Fortune hath not willed it so. 

For once again, O fair, imperial Rome, 

Thou drew'st me to thee from the foaming shore 
Beyond the separating sea. Once more 

Didst thou allure me from a well-loved home, 

Sorceress, who fosterest in thy breast 
The witcheries that ardent souls desire, 
The charms that even torpid hearts inspire, 

The spells that have e'en doubting eyes obsessed. 

Thou art not as thou wert, O Rome ! Yet oft 

I glimpse some lovely fragments as of yore — 
Some unsupporting shafts that skyward soar, 

Some mediaeval tower that looms aloft, 

Making the pulses throb. Perchance I see 
A roofing pine upon a crumbling wall, 



9 8 IN ITALY 

A scutcheoned gateway by a cypress tall, 
Or mossy marble 'neath an ilex-tree. 

Or else I hear the cool, continuous flow 
Of waters from an old barocco fount, 
Or note the fluttering statues that surmount 

The cornice of a tawny portico. 

'T is well that I have seen thee in thy grace, 

marvelous Campagna! Thy proud sweep 
Will pass. Old men thy comely past will weep 

When commerce shall thy classic lines deface. 

Yet there are moments in this noble land, 

Replete with all the sweets the world can give, 
In which it is a paradise to live — 

Hard moments when disconsolate I stand, 

An alien gazing on a frantic throng 

That shouts for king and "patria." Oh, then 

1 yearn for fatherland and unkinged men, 
For speech unfettered — for untrammeled song. 

Such f eelings pass, and others take their place, 
Of gentler mood, that reverently blend 
With cherished memories of many a friend 

From almost every clime — of every race. 

O Rome ! through all the changes I have seen, 

Through those vicissitudes the years have 

brought 
Since first thy hospitality I sought, 

An inspiration thou hast ever been. 



IN ITALY 99 

Now must I leave thee : the hour has come to part, 
Transcendent Rome! and if my eyes confess 
Their grief, and words be frail, it is that they ex- 
press 

The trembling promptings of a faltering heart. 

Farewell, a sad farewell! I cannot say 
If this despondent parting be my last 
From thee, majestic Love. Who may forecast 

The ventures of some undetermined day? 

December, 191 i. 



AFTER STORM 

A sense of sweet content there comes to me, 
Whether at break of day I note the glow 
Of roseate rays on Etna's sky-set snow, 
Or when her silver cone in mystery 

Doth soar from out the placid, moonlit sea, 
Or when at noon upon the high plateau 
I stand amid the classic stones which strow 
The crag that overhangs the blue-bound lea. 

friend! these lovely scenes inanimate — 
After the stresses of a racking storm — 
Bring to my travailed soul a grateful balm. 

Aye! sweet indeed they are; and if I rate 
Them not the all in all, yet they inform 
Me with a luscious mood of dreamy calm. 

Taormina, January, 191 2. 



IN ITALY 



ALMOND-BLOSSOMS 

(Taormina) 

O lustrous blossoms of the almond- trees ! 
O blushing flowers! ye are ever fair, 
Whether ye shine upon Ionian seas 
Deep blue — all barred with tones so rare 
Of emerald and amethyst — that pour 
Their waters to the far Calabrian shore, 
Or deck the terraced gardens orange-grown 
Inwoven with the citron's paler tone. 

O pearly blossoms of the almond-trees, 
Well-wedded to your branches brown and bare, 
Trembling upon the soft Sicilian air, 
Shimmering upon the tepid, languorous breeze 
Scent-laden with the Spring, 't were hard to say 
If ye be comelier in the Orb's full ray 
Than when ye glimmer with more modest sheen, 
Wrapt in the shadows of some dim ravine 
Whose beetling crests are tinctured with bright gold 

By the great westering sun. 
And ye are splendent, too, when ye unfold 
Your petals in a gleaming unison 
With the illumined, ruddy, ruined wall — 
All marbled once — where histrions did enthrall 
In lines heroic raptured Roman ears. 
Again I see ye ramping up the height 
E'en to the Rock — a waif from savage years — 
As though ye had the gentle thought to blight 
A cursed past with bloomings benedight. 



IN ITALY 101 

O flowers transcendent ! soon the wind will blow, 
And ye will blanch the terraced slopes as snow 

Doth blanch wild arctic floes, 
And tender green will then be heir to rose. 

O blossoms of the rathest budding Spring! 

harbingers of warmth and copious flowers, 

How kindly do ye bring 
Contentment to this weary life of ours ! 

How sweetly do ye sing 
In visual song of earthly happiness ! 

Your floreate offering 

1 take, and your fair bourgeoning I bless. 
February, 191 2. . ■ , 



ON THE CORSO, TAORMINA 

If you walk the narrow street 
Where the boisterous townsfolk meet 
In a nonchalance complete, 

You will pass an open door, 
And will see a pretty score 
Of girls who work and sing 
Those words that solace bring, 
Or a pro nobis. 

It is a charming sight 
To see these children bright, 
All frocked with shining white, 
In a room where shadows lurk 
At their dainty needle- work: 



102 IN ITALY 

And as they sew they sing 
Those words that softly ring, 

Or a pro nobis. 

And some have features fair 
With the flaming auburn hair, 
While their azure eyes declare 
Their Norman sheer descent: 
But the gold with black is blent. 
And blond and dark both sing 
Sweet words which heavenward wing, 
Ora pro nobis. 

How oft a cult brings pain 
With its tawdriness profane ! 
But oh ! this sweet refrain 

That breaks upon the ear, 
So pure and so sincere — 
Those words the children sing, 
Their guileless offering, 

Ora pro nobis. 
February, 191 2. 



HALCYON DAYS, TAORMINA 

On such fair days I yield to lassitude, 

Though neither lotus-love is mine, nor ease 
Of uncreative hours. The languorous breeze 
Skims the calm sea's expanse. The springtide 
mood 



IN ITALY 103 

Is on the cliffs, while vapors argent-hued 

Crown the slow-soaring cone. Ah! days like these 
Bring indolence with rain-bowed reveries 
And grant to strife a grateful interlude. 

I hear the amorous doves that softly coo 

Amid pale greening trees; the odors sweet 
From orange-bloom the willing senses woo . . . 

But wake ! nor slumber more with lures that cheat 
High aims. Yet hold! Is it not worth the while 
From time to time Life's turmoil to beguile? 

March, 191 2. 



DEGRADATION 

Two paupers passed me on the street to-day 
With shuffling steps, a cripple and his mate, 
Reduced to loathsomeness by ruthless fate, 
Riveled and gnarled, their flesh a ghastly gray, 

Incrusted with the cruel years' decay. 

Oh ! scarcely could my heart commiserate 
Their awful plight, their foul, revolting state, 
So hideous that I turned mine eyes away. 

Thou, who mad'st yon sea of celadon 

Laving the curving shore, those oiiTs of gold, 
Those reaches fair whose sight is very bliss, — 

Why didst thou fashion mortal man upon 

Thine image pure? Why cast him ;n thy mould 
If he can sink to such a depth as this? 

March, 191 2. 



io 4 IN ITALY 



IDYLL— TAORMINA 

'T is afternoon in budding spring, 
And o'er his realm the genial king 
Sheds rays that quicken everything 
On peak and sea-girt lea. 

I stand upon a parapet 
Time-crumbled, impotent but yet 
A sparkling, cliff-crest coronet, 
And far away I see 

A shepherd piping on a hill 
To browsing flocks; the air so still 
That one can hear the liquid trill 
Across the deep-set vale 

Immersed in opalescent shade: 
Beyond the violet ridges fade 
Into soft argent clouds arrayed 

'Neath ^Etna's summit pale. 

I hear the distant soothing song 
Of breaking waves on beaches long 
Which drowns the poverty and wrong 
Of this too lovely isle. 

Ah me! such blessed, heavenly hues — 
The purple that the mount imbues, 
The gems that stud cerulean blues — 
Would rebel eyes beguile. 



IN ITALY 105 

And on the nearer slopes serene 
Are climbing clustering almonds green. 
Forsooth, is this not such a scene 
As sang Theocritus? 

Perchance, perchance: yet well I trow 
Life then was not as it is now, 
Unless with gloss he did endow 
His verse mellifluous. 

Howbeit, the setting is the same 
Through all these years of blood and shame: 
Fell iEtna roars, the seas proclaim 
A beauty absolute, 

Which lifts one to a loftier sphere, 
To higher aims that domineer 
All baser schemes — that soothe, that cheer, 
And our mean plaints confute. 
April, 1912. 



FROM THE THEATRE, TAORMINA 

'T was on the morning of a silvery day, 

When all the firmament was laved in light, 
I stood upon the famed Sicilian height 
Crowned by the massive glowing red decay 

Of Roman masonry. Beneath me lay 
A glorious expanse supremely dight, 
A sea of lazuli and malachite 
Engirdled by fair cliffs of golden gray. 



106 IN ITALY 

Yet even as I gazed on thee, O blue, 

O heavenly sea, in thine alluring guise, 
Thou didst enact a tragedy that drew 

The world's hot tears — not there beneath mine eyes, 
But where the cruel, gelid bergs pursue 
Their pallid way below cold northern skies. 

April, 191 2. 



NIGHT — TAORMINA 

Sweet is thy quietude, O holy Night, 

That shroudest all the obvious wares of Day, 
Or beautiful, or mean. No rich display 
Mak'st thou of sapphire sea, or flowers bright 

As orient gems, or opalescent height, 
Or fruitful plain — a jeweler's inlay 
Of green and gold. No ! naught dost thou betray 
Beneath thy masking mantle benedight. 

Yet on thy vaulting shine the lovely stars, 

Soft-beaming brilliants on a deep blue field. 
Beacons of Hope! emblems of what is sure 

And durable and high ! Their radiance jars 

Not, and to them all mundane lights do yield 
Supremacy — so chaste they are and pure. 

May, 1912. 



IN GREECE 



IN GREECE 

NEARING GREECE 

We rounded Sappho's rock — lo, there was Greece! 
Upon the right Ulysses' island lay- 
Deep leafy-green, gay-seamed with glowing clay; 
Eastward there languished clouds of golden 
fleece 

On Acarnanian peaks — a god's caprice; 

The wavelets took a blue that might dismay 
A porcelain craftsman from far-off Cathay, 
While sea and earth and sky bespoke sweet 
peace. 

Though leafy-green the isle and blue the wave, 
And languishing the clouds of golden hue, 
Such ravishments did not desire sate; 

Mine eager eyes were bent on surfs that lave 
Fell Missolonghi, where fair Freedom drew 
The wilding bard to a disastrous fate. 

May, 1912. 



AT DELPHI 

I sat within the cool Parnassian shade 

Cast by romantic cliffs, and at my feet 
Flowed the Castalian stream whose waters sweet 
Sparkled their way in musical cascade 



no IN GREECE 

Into a solemn olive-girdled glade. 

Pure was the air, and all the land replete 

With mystery. Ah! nothing can delete 

The impress which that classic ambient made. 

Castalia! Parnassus! not in vain 

To us your aeon-sanctioned names appeal: 
For though the visual godhead may no more 

Roam your delicious haunts, or no more deign 
To inspire, yet your sane influence we feel, 
And at your shattered shrines we still adore. 

May, 1912. 



PRINTED BY H. O. HOUGHTON & CO. 

CAMBRIDGE, MASS. 

U. S. A. 



'OCT 21 191? 



